


Chasing the Horizon

by stilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bottom Derek, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Hellhound Derek, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinski/pseuds/stilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  Stiles nearly laughs and for a moment, he sits there trying to think of anything to say. "It's been a good year," he croaks at long last. "I got you back--I got you back and I was so scared I'd lose you, you know? I got out there; I backpacked across half of Europe with my best friends - I got to see the never less than perfectly composed Lydia Martin after a few days without showers or real beds. Scott and Allison got married, dad. I made a speech."</p><p>  The Sheriff's expression softens and he smiles, reaching up and clapping Stiles' shoulder. "You did. I was there. You had Melissa, Scott <em>and</em> Allison in tears."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> For [Emma](http://vernonserica.tumblr.com/) and the other two anons who appeared in my ask box with their loving demands for hellhound fic, and for [Fee](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/), for endlessly cheering me through it (and every other follower I have for bearing with my hissy fits throughout).
> 
> The original gifset this was inspired by appears to have disappeared into the abyss, though I have a reblog of it [here](http://obroech.tumblr.com/post/74524511638). The OP has another one, though, so [here's that one](http://sher-lokied.tumblr.com/post/70797312033/teen-wolf-au-hellhound-derek-and-human-stiles). It's a very, very loose inspiration, but it appears to have been what got the ball rolling, being as I got three requests for it as soon as I opened my ask to 'em, not long after it was posted.
> 
> Unbetaed, so wince with me through the no doubt mortifying mistakes.
> 
> Title from Lucy Spraggan's "Mountains".
> 
>  **Preemptive warning-disclaimer:** I'm playing fast and loose with hellhound (and, uh, everything else) lore/mythology in that I'm writing the damn thing so hellhounds (and aforementioned everything else) can do whatever I say they can do. Loosely based within the weird and wonderful realm that is Supernatural mythology, with a couple of wild, radical changes. You'll know 'em when y'see's 'um--nobody could ever accuse me of being too subtle, really.
> 
>  **There is a warning in the end notes** \- there are no names, but it's a pretty huge spoiler; you can skip down and read it if you want. I promise, promise, promise, this has a happy ending.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Additionally: I do not give my consent for my work to be shared on GoodReads, or any other site with a similar objective. Ever. No exceptions.**

Stiles has had the day marked on his calendar for a year. His father's asked what's so special about August 15th several dozen times and each time, Stiles has shrugged it off and said it was a project Scott had convinced him to do - a 365 day bucket list of sorts, and August 15th was to be the deadline. His father had accepted it -- at least, on the surface, he had: he'd never brought up the fact that August 15th had been the day the previous year that he'd woken up in hospital making a miraculous recovery from what should have been a fatal bullet wound.

  The day dawns bright and Stiles fights the urge to pull his duvet over his head until the demon -- Kate, she'd called herself -- or one of her minions comes to collect him, but his phone begins to scream at him and he forces himself to roll over, groaning when he hits the floor and grunting when he answers the phone.

  "Last Day on Earth breakfast with the gang," Scott chirps. "We're all at the diner. Lydia says be here soon or she's gonna order hash browns with a side of hash browns and make you eat 'em."

  He hangs up and Stiles lets his head fall forward, smacking his forehead on the floorboards. The phone bleeps at him and he looks up to see a picture message from Lydia -- a close up of the section of the menu's selection of hash browns. He sighs and hauls himself to his feet, scratching his belly as he staggers into his adjoining bathroom.

  Feeling marginally more human, Stiles leaves his apartment and locks up for what could be the last time. He forces himself not to think about it as he runs his fingers over the hood of his Jeep in the parking lot to his building; forces himself not to contemplate that it's a shame that it's such a beautiful day because he's probably going to end it covered in his own blood and gasping his final breaths.

  He arrives at the diner in a daze and spots his friends immediately -- they've occupied the same booth every week for the past year. He sits down in his usual space beside Lydia; the atmosphere's a lot more sombre than usual - where Lydia's usually rolling her eyes, hiding a fond smile and tucked up under Jackson's arm, now her head's bent over her cell phone, eyes never stationary; where Scott's usually grinning and entertaining the whole table if not the entire diner, now he's offering Stiles a small, worried smile and tracing the wood grain with his fingertips; where Allison's usually laughing between Isaac and Scott, now she's reaching her hand over the table and linking Stiles' fingers, squeezing harder than is probably strictly necessary, and she doesn't let go; where Isaac's usually lounging back pretending to be detached and too cool for their little ragtag bunch, now he's hunched forward over the table, paler than usual; where Jackson's usually maintaining an air of haughty disdain and making disparaging - but affectionate - comments, now his arm is stretched over the back of Lydia's chair and gripping the back of Stiles', expression carefully void of any emotion.

  Stiles clears his throat and licks his lips. After a moment, he gently removes his hand from Allison's and takes Lydia's phone from her, switching the screen off and placing it face-down on the table. He knows, had he looked at it, he'd have seen ancient scripts from various sources there.

  "You've done everything you can," he tells her; Lydia scowls at him something fierce and he can't help but smile. "I appreciate it, but the contract was airtight and I agreed to it sound of mind. My dad's life for my soul - a year and no longer. I just need you all to promise you'll make sure my dad gets through this."

  No one says a thing: Lydia had spent the entire month of September the previous year furious with him; she'd turned up, soaked to the skin by October rain, and thrown herself at him, begging him to tell her he'd made it all up in some cruel, sick joke. Scott, bless him, had done his best to try and understand but Stiles knows it's been eating away at him because he _can't_. Allison and Jackson have, much to Stiles' surprise, been the most understanding of all of them. Over the past year, Stiles has had promises from each of their group that the Sheriff would be taken care of.

  "Can't we just kill her?" Isaac asks, not for the first time that year.

  Stiles runs a hand through his hair, sighing, but it's Lydia who answers, tone businesslike. "It's probably not going to be Kate who comes for him," she says. "Crossroads demons rarely do - they send their pets to collect their bounty. Hellhounds. They're invisible to all but those they're hunting, Isaac."

  "Stiles could do it," Scott says quietly, and the unerring faith he has breaks Stiles' heart just a little more. "Stiles could kill a hellhound."

  "Sure I could, buddy," Stiles acquiesces, tired - tired of this conversation because they've had it a dozen times, tired of being afraid, tired of telling his friends to stop searching because it'll destroy them and he won't be there to pick up the pieces. He's tired, but he pushes himself to sit up straight and smile, meeting each of his friends' eyes. "Anyway. Where are my pancakes?"

*

Stiles chews on his lip as he circles Lydia's house -- his friends are inside, despite all of his protests, still poring over every book and resource they can find. He'd told them he was going to get some air and it had taken him half an hour to convince anyone from going with him, pointing out that he wasn't going to be dragged off at random -- midnight, he'd said forcefully, over and over; he has until midnight before the hounds of hell come for him.

  Technically, he hadn't lied: he'd gone out to get some breathing room, but what he'd failed to mention was the fact his pockets were full of mountain ash, powdered wolfsbane, iron salt and rock salt. Mountain ash for Scott, Jackson and Isaac, and wolfsbane to ensure Scott didn't try his little alpha trick of pushing through the barrier, the iron and salt for Lydia's fae blood and to prevent any demons -- hellhound or otherwise -- out. For Allison, he's going to have to get creative, though he has an inkling of an idea -- it'll upset everyone, but if it keeps his friends from getting involved and trying to do something stupid like save him, he'll do it.

  Stiles sighs, the circle complete and concealed enough that it won't be discovered until he's had the chance to incapacitate Allison and get back out. He shoves his hands into his now empty pockets and lets himself into the house. He walks into the living room, standing in the doorway and trying to memorise the scene: Scott's sprawled before the fire with Allison sitting at his shoulder and Isaac's head resting on the small of his back; Jackson and Lydia are curled together on the loveseat, all of them reading and silent.

  "Hey, Al? Want to come help me make some tea?" Stiles asks, heart in his throat; Allison looks up, frowning, and then nods with a little smile. She pecks Scott's cheek and stands up, joining Stiles in the doorway; he leads her into the kitchen and he goes about getting together mugs.

  "We can do this," Allison says, coming to rest her chin on his shoulder. "We're going to get you out of this."

  She wraps her arms around him and he leans his temple against the top of her head for a moment, covering her linked fingers with one of his hands. "We've had a year to figure it out," he says. "There's nothing more anyone can do. It's okay, though, really. I got to see my best friend marry his dream girl and Jackson grew up enough for him to ask me to approve an engagement ring for Lydia."

  "He's going to...?"

  Stiles smiles. "Yeah," he says. "And don't let Lydia freak out and refuse just because I'm not gonna be there to see her walk down the aisle, yeah? She needs you all more than she lets on."

  "I know, Stiles," Allison says, gentle and warm. Stiles turns and she moves away just enough for him to roll his palm over the rim of her mug before he hands it to her. He lifts his own mug and clinks it against hers, taking a sip of his tea. She takes a gulp of her own and then frowns; he catches the mug before she drops it and wraps an arm around her back to catch her before she falls.

  "I'm sorry," he whispers, resting his forehead against her shoulder once he steers her into a chair. "I'm sorry, Ally, I'm so sorry."

  She makes a soft sound, wide eyes gazing up at him; he presses his lips to her forehead and peels off the cling wrap from his hand where he'd smeared just a tiny amount of kanima venom.

  "I love you - all of you," he says. "This'll wear off in a few hours. It doesn't have any detrimental health effects - to either of you. Tell the others I'm sorry, but I'm not at the same time. You'll all hate me, but you can be angry with me all you like: I wouldn't be me if I wasn't doing this."

  With that, he turns and slips out the back door, running past his lines of ash, dust and salt and _believing_ as he sprints past them, feeling the barriers come into place as he passes through the front yard gate and out onto the street. He hears a howl from the house -- Scott -- and grits his teeth against the betrayal welling in his gut. He climbs into his Jeep and pulls away - there's one more barrier to put up before he gets home.

*

He sits outside his childhood home for an hour before mustering up the courage to get out of the car. He stops to refill his pockets with salt -- the Sheriff's aware of the supernatural but not aware of his son's deal with a devil, so it's just a precautionary measure to ensure no demons try to go knocking at his dad's door -- and circles the house before approaching the front door. He hesitates, fingers hovering over the door handle before he sighs and knocks instead

  "Stiles? Hey, kid. What are you doing knocking?"

  Stiles has to physically restrain himself from throwing himself at his father. "I figured it was late," he says. "Didn't wanna set off the alarm if you were already sleeping."

  His father gives him a funny look but steps back - he doesn't invite anyone, not even Stiles, into the house verbally, not since Stiles got attacked by a shapeshifter wearing Scott's likeness a few years back upon inviting it over the threshold, and the thought reassures Stiles as he pads into the kitchen, brushing his fingertips over the photo of his mom in her wedding dress in the hall.

  "Did you finish it?" Dad asks, and Stiles blinks; the Sheriff taps the calendar on the side, where the date is circled - an imitation of the one on Stiles' own desk at his apartment.

  "I--" Stiles' throat is dry and he struggles to find words for a second. "Yeah, dad. I did everything I needed to, everything I could."

  It's not a lie, and that's probably what hurts the most. Dad pulls out a chair and sits down, nudging the one beside him out for Stiles to take.

  "Tell me about your year, son," he says, and Stiles swallows down the aching lump in his throat. "You look like you could use a friendly ear."

  Stiles nearly laughs and for a moment, he sits there trying to think of anything to say. "It's been a good year," he croaks at long last. "I got you back--I got you back and I was so scared I'd lose you, you know? I got out there; I backpacked across half of Europe with my best friends - I got to see the never less than perfectly composed Lydia Martin after a few days without showers or real beds. Scott and Allison got married, dad. I made a speech."

  The Sheriff's expression softens and he smiles, reaching up and clapping Stiles' shoulder. "You did. I was there. You had Melissa, Scott _and_ Allison in tears."

  Stiles grins at the memory. "I wanted it to be memorable."

  They sit and talk about years gone by, dad throwing in a couple of stories about his mom, until it's just passing eleven. Stiles fakes a yawn and pushes himself up.

  "I'm gonna head home," Stiles says.

  "Your room's still up there if you're too tired to drive, buddy."

  Stiles nearly goes weak with the want to accept. Instead, he smiles and shakes his head. "I know, but the guys are coming over early tomorrow, so it's probably safest if I'm already there so they don't blow up the kitchen or something."

  His father laughs and they walk to the door together. "Hey," says the Sheriff. "I love you, kid."

  Stiles turns and wraps himself around his father, breathing in the comforting scent of home. "Love you too, dad."

  He aches to just stay in the safe circle of his father's arms, beg him not to let go, because he's _scared_ \- terrified, even. He wishes he was still at the age that a kiss from his mother and a hug from his father could fix anything; he wishes his mom was still around with the smile that used to light up his room and scare away the monsters under his bed, because the monsters are real, now, and there's one coming for him in an hour.

  Eventually, he eases himself away from his father and offers a weak smile; the Sheriff looks concerned, but smiles back and stands haloed in hall light as he watches Stiles climb into his Jeep and drive away.

* 

At 11:45, Stiles is sitting in his favourite chair within a circle of salt and iron, a braid of devil's shoestring around his ankle, hidden and protected by his sock and jeans. He has the root above all of his doors and windows but everything he's read tells him that hellhounds can materialise in a room at will - though a complete circle with a small surface area presents something of a challenge. That little fact hasn't prevented him from lining the windows and door with rock salt just as a precaution, though.

  Stiles curls his fingers over the barrel of his shotgun, though he has no real intent of using it -- he doesn't want to attract the attention of his neighbours.

  His phone flares to life and after jumping out of his skin, clutching a hand over his racing heart, he accepts the call but doesn't say anything.

  "You shouldn't be alone," says Scott, and that's all he says. Stiles blinks back the burning, prickling sensation behind his eyelids.

  "Thanks, Scotty," Stiles says. "You should call the cops or something as soon as I, uh, as soon as I go. They'll be suspicious if they check my call records and see us talking just before I disappear off the face of the earth, you know?"

  "I'm so pissed at you, Stiles," Scott says eventually. "We're brothers, man -- we're supposed to go down together if we go down at all."

  "I couldn't let you abandon Allison like that. You have your life to live, Scott - I made my decision, gave mine up, a year ago. You have Allison and… You have Allison."

  There's a sharp intake of breath and Stiles closes his eyes. "She's--?"

  "Yeah, buddy," he says. "When she and I went to pick up dinner earlier, she asked me to drop by the doctor's surgery for some results of something. I kind of figured it out even though she didn't tell me. I don't think she wanted to tell anyone, not today at least. Congratulations, man - you're gonna be a daddy. Make sure Isaac spoils my niece or nephew rotten for me, yeah?"

  "Stiles…" Scott doesn't say anything more; his throat clicks audibly at Stiles' heart wrenches.

  "It's nearly midnight," Stiles says, shifting position in his chair to make sure none of his limbs are falling asleep - the chair's back is to the wall, a tiny sliver in between for the line of salt, so he can see the whole room; the clock on the wall says he has three minutes. "Scott? Scott, I'm scared."

  Scott makes a sound Stiles is pretty sure is a dry sob. "Hang in there, man," he says. "I - uh, everyone's here. I'm gonna put you on speaker, okay?"

  Stiles hears the telltale subtle switch of static on the other line so he knows he's on speaker though nobody's saying a word. He doesn't blame them - he can't think of anything to say, either.

  "I don't blame any of you," he says after a minute -- two minutes to go. "And that includes you, Lydia Martin. I don't want any of you to be miserable without me, all right? Don't do anything I'd do -- up to and including exchanging your soul for my life. Take care of each other, take care of yourselves. If you even think about summoning a crossroads demon for me, think about how the others will feel, having to go through this twice. You guys are gonna be fine without me, I promise."

  "Stop it, Stilinski," Lydia says. "Stop trying to convince us life's going to be fine, because it isn't, you giant _asshole_."

  Stiles gasps out a laugh. "Sorry, Lydia," he says. "But you will be okay - all of you will be okay. Maybe not right now; I totally understand, a world without the veritable ray of sunshine that is myself will probably suck, but one day, you guys will have one of those moments that you see in the movies, where the main character wakes up one day and they have this epiphany that someone's gone from their life, but it's okay to keep going, right?"

  "I swear to God, if you've done any of that _PS I Love You_ bullshit, I'll raise you up just to murder you myself," Lydia snaps, and then makes a winded sound when the grandfather clock in her home begins to chime midnight.

  Stiles hears a single howl in the distance and lets out a shaky exhale. "Guys, I gotta go," he says. "I'm… I love you guys, okay? But unless you want years of therapy, it's probably best if you hang up now. Listening to me being literally dragged to hell is probably not gonna be pretty."

  There's a silence punctuated only by the chiming of the clock before Scott speaks up. "We're with you," he says. "'Til the end, buddy, therapy be damned."

  "Okay," Stiles breathes, the knot in his gut loosening even as his throat grows tighter. "Okay, but please don't think less of me if I start screaming and crying like a baby, yeah?"

  "Not a problem," Jackson says drily, and Stiles has never been more grateful for Jackson's determined stoicism in the face of emotion. "Couldn't think any less of you than we already do."

  " _Jackson_."

  Stiles laughs at Lydia's indignance. "I'll miss you too, Whittemore," he says lightly, and it's only then that he realises the clock has stopped chiming; he's suddenly aware of the dead silence around him.

  "That won't keep me out forever."

  Stiles yelps and jerks his head to the side; there's a man -- he doesn't look much older than Stiles himself -- standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest and wearing an expression of disdain to rival even Jackson's.

  "What?" Stiles asks after a pause.

  "Your salt and iron ring," says the man. "And the shoestring won't hold after a while, either."

  Stiles blinks at him. "Who are you?" he asks; the man cocks his head to one side as though trying to figure out if Stiles is being serious or not, a doglike motion Stiles got used to seeing on Scott in the first few months after he was bitten. Stiles' mouth falls open -- _this_ is the hellhound? "I was expecting something more… canine."

  The hellhound bares his teeth in a pale, pointed imitation of a grin. "I can rip you to shreds just as easily in this form," he says. "Come over here and I'll give you a personal demonstration."

  "I'll pass," Stiles says. "Thanks, though. Considerate of you to offer. You're a real samaritan."

  "Is Stiles sassing a hellhound?" Lydia asks faintly. "Stiles is sassing a hellhound."

  "Eventually, you'll need to eat," the hellhound says. "Or use a bathroom, or someone else equally as human and useless."

  Stiles shrugs, putting his phone down - the call stays connected. "Yeah," he says. "But how long before dear old Kate gets impatient and sends someone else to do your job for you? What happens to _you_ if you don't get the job done?"

  The hellhound's face twitches but otherwise he doesn't react. "She won't send someone else," he says. "It doesn't work that way."

  "You're awfully chatty for a delivery boy," Stiles says. Silence reigns for a short period while Stiles examines his sudden companion -- had the situation been anything but imminent death, Stiles would be trying to _climb_ this guy with his leather jacket and designer stubble. "At least you picked a pretty vessel, I guess."

  The hellhound quirks an eyebrow and looks down at himself. "Not a vessel," he says, and his expression becomes one of utmost cockiness. "This is all me, kid."

  "Nice of Kate to send me a pretty assassin, then," Stiles says easily, the chatter calming him, giving him something to focus upon other than his impending, inevitable doom. "So what's the plan, Cujo? Gonna glare at me until I need to pee?"

  "I could," the hellhound says, and then takes two steps and sinks down onto Stiles' loveseat, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. "I have all of eternity; you have as much time as it takes for your tiny human bladder to burst."

  "I could just pee here," says Stiles.

  "You'll die without water within three days," says the hellhound. "Quicker if you're not eating or sleeping."

  "Better than being dragged to hell bloody and screaming," Stiles says.

  The hellhound sits up, regarding him curiously. "You're aware I could quite literally _scare_ you to death if I wanted to? Not all collected souls arrive in hell in pieces -- only those who try to run or fight. Call it an instinct."

  "So you expect me just to walk over there all ' _Let's go, Lassie_ ' and we'll stroll off into the fires of hell together?"

  "You made a deal," he says. "You knew the terms when you made it. I'm here to collect. Even if you somehow managed to run and escape, I'd find you. I won't stop, not ever. I can't."

  Stiles stares at him, mouth opening and closing a couple of times. It's beginning to sound as though his hellhound is here against his will. "So if you chose to," he says slowly. "You could just _not_ drag me away? You could, in theory, chase me for years without actually catching me."

  The hellhound's eyes gleam oddly in the dim light of the lamp by Stiles' elbow. "In theory," he says. "But to go against my master…? I probably wouldn't, unless the stakes were made _very_ interesting."

  Stiles tamps down on the hope in his chest; his friends are conspicuously silent. "What do hellhounds find interesting?" he asks slowly. "I mean, there's a TV right there and there's usually a _Friends_ marathon on somewhere at any given time. That could keep you occupied for _months_ , dude. Maybe an Attenborough documentary or two."

  "Kate holds her own deals," says the hellhound. "Including mine."

  Stiles stares at him for a couple of moments, thrown by the apparent non-response before it clicks. "You want me to kill a crossroads demon."

  "No," the hellhound says, and that dark little grin is back. " _You_ want you to kill a crossroads demon."

  "I'm not sure killing a crossroads demon and setting loose however many hellhounds she has is a good idea, even if it does save my life."

  "Those of us with tasks will complete them before being vanquished back to hell, and those not will go with Kate when she's killed," the hellhound says with a shrug.

  "So I kill Kate and still end up in hell? Sounds like a bum deal. There's no incentive for you not to rip me apart as soon as she's dead."

  "I don't want to go back," says the hellhound, eyes flickering red for a moment or two; he grips the arm of the couch so hard Stiles hears it crack. "I will not be owned again. I am nobody's _pet_."

  "Gonna have to give me more to go on than that, Hooch. Hellhounds are notoriously loyal to their owners and there's no record of one ever switching allegiances; everything I've read about your kind tells me to be wary of deception and that you're not to be reasoned with because none of you have that capacity."

  The hellhound narrows his eyes. "Derek Hale," he says. "I died in an apparent gas leak two hundred and six years ago along with most of my family. The name of the demon who killed us was Katherine Argent -- when werewolves go to hell, we become hellhounds, and she wanted a new stock. I've watched her murder every member of my family twice - once to bring them to back as hellhounds and once to kill them off for good. I was her _favourite_."

  Stiles watches him warily. "If you were her favourite, why--?"

  "She kept me. She murdered all of my family and kept me. Tortured me for centuries, made me watch as she picked my mother apart inch by inch; she ripped my younger sister into shreds right in front of me. I was her favourite because she enjoyed tearing me apart. Find her bones and burn them, and I'll owe you a debt, human."

  Stiles chews on his lip thoughtfully. "I'm Stiles," he says slowly. "If we're going to do this, you should probably stop calling me _human_ , or referencing how weak and pathetic humans are. If you're… if you're going to be 'chasing' me, we're gonna be spending a lot of time together, so we'll have to lay down a few ground rules. I won't force feed you graveyard dirt and wash it down with holy water if you don't decide I make a tasty snack, that kind of thing."

  "Your little friends don't try to kill me, I don't take their limbs as insurance," Derek counters.

  "Reasonable enough, I suppose," says Stiles. "You're going to have to play the part of my new room mate, okay? No turning into a giant slobbering beast and scaring the neighbours -- we're not allowed pets in this building. For that matter, no eating the neighbours, or my dad -- no murdering of anyone, at any time, ever."

  Derek's beginning to look amused. "I'll need to feed."

  "Then you can eat like the rest of us," Stiles says. "And if you promise not to hurt anyone, I'm sure Scott will eventually let you run with his pack -- they're werewolves, he's the alpha around here."

  Derek blinks at him.

  Stiles rubs a hand over his face and grabs his phone from where it's been sitting on the arm of his chair. "Okay, guys," he says. "When you inevitably all come charging over, don't try to kill the hellhound on my couch and he won't try to kill you, either."

  "Stiles, tell me you know what you're doing," Lydia says.

  Stiles glances up at Derek, who gives him a nice, wide display of teeth. "Nope, not a clue," he says. "But I don't have to trust him to believe him. If, by wild happenstance, I end up ripped to shreds anyway, be sure to find the bones of Katherine Argent and Derek Hale and burn both of them for good measure."

  "Argent?" Lydia echoes and Stiles freezes. "Stiles..."

  Stiles looks at Derek. "Two hundred and six years ago, there was a gas leak in a house--only, I'm getting the feeling it wasn't gas at all," he says. "A whole family were killed."

  Derek's watching him, expression guarded. "All but two," he says. "My sister and uncle - Peter was irreversibly poisoned and died later; Laura died in a mining accident a year after that. We lived on a farm but California was better for the mining industry, so my brothers and I worked there."

  "Do you have any idea where Kate came from?"

  Derek shrugs. "France," he says. "She still had the accent so she can't have been dead long."

  "Stiles, we can't go to France just to find a two hundred year old skeleton," Scott says.

  "We'll find out as much as we can first," Stiles says. "But if this saves my ass? I'm totally cool blowing money on the plane fare."

  Derek's lips curl a little. "Never travel by demon?"

  "I'll pass," Stiles says. "No telling what might happen were I to climb aboard you."

  " _Stiles_! That's a hellhound you're flirting with!"

  Derek's grinning at him - it's not a particularly _nice_ grin, but Stiles will take what he can get. Stiles makes a rude sound. "Anyway. I'm gonna go to bed - today has been exhausting."

  "There's a hellhound in your apartment and you're going to bed," Isaac says. Stiles rolls his eyes.

  "If he murders me in my sleep, you're free to say ' _I told you so_ ', all right? I'll probably see you all in a few hours when Allison recovers enough to break the lines. Until then, goodnight."

  Stiles hangs up without waiting for a reply. Derek has flopped over, sprawling over the couch making a show of having not a care in the world. Stiles gingerly stands up and pushes his foot over the salt and iron, breaking his barrier and _praying_ his instincts aren't wrong.

  "How have you managed to dress for this century if you died in, like, 1800?"

  "1811," Derek corrects, opening one eye to watch Stiles. "And Kate makes sure we blend in."

  "Nice of her," Stiles says. "Want some coffee?"

  "I thought you were going to bed."

  "There's a bounty on my soul and a hellhound on my couch - sleep's a thing that probably isn't gonna happen."

  Derek snorts and folds his arms under his head, closing his eyes again.

  Stiles makes himself a cup of coffee and heads into his bedroom. He hauls his bed away from the wall and digs into his pockets where he still has a supply of salt and iron; he circles the bed and his nightstand, climbing into it and holding his mug to his chest, eyes on the door.

*

Stiles wakes up the following morning, which is a pleasant surprise. The fact he managed to sleep is somewhat unsettling, but it's outweighed by the fact he's still in one piece and breathing.

  He makes a strangled sound, however, when he sits up to find a veritable bear of a dog curled at the end of his bed. Its eyes blink open, shining red, and it lifts its head.

  "Uh, Derek?"

  The dog - wolf, bear, _hellhound_ \- blinks at him in acknowledgement and then tucks his head back around, huffing and shifting to get comfortable - a motion that rocks the whole frame.

  Stiles leans over the side of the bed to see his salt and iron barrier still wholly in tact and feels sick.

  "You could have just stepped over it at any time?"

  Derek lifts his head again and inclines it in a deliberate nod.

  "I'd have felt so much safer if you'd just kept up the pretense I was safe from becoming a midnight snack," Stiles says; Derek huffs at him. Suddenly, Derek's heard jerks and swivels around, lips peeling back in a snarl. "If it sounds like a herd of elephants, those are my friends and we'll all get along better if nobody tries to maim anyone."

  Stiles clambers out of bed and changes into a clean t-shirt; he'd fallen asleep fully dressed, so he figures the jeans can stay. He pads through to the kitchen, the click of claws on hardwood telling him Derek's following. Stiles is pouring coffee into seven mugs when his apartment door flies open and his friends tumble inside.

  He glances at Derek. "I told you so," he says. "If you want coffee, you'll have to change back."

  "Who are you talking to?" Scott asks.

  Stiles glances down at Derek, who blinks at him, and then at his friends all squeezed into the doorway. "Oh, right. Invisible. Will they be able to see you in your other form?"

  Derek tips his head and there's a swirl of smoke; Scott makes a sound of alarm in his throat but the smoke's gone as soon as it arrived, leaving Derek in his human form standing beside Stiles.

  "Naked," Stiles says, fighting to keep his eyes above the neck. "You're naked, dude, where are your clothes?"

  "I can see him," Allison says, suddenly grinning.

  "All of him," Lydia agrees, eyes bright.

  Scott and Jackson look irritated and Stiles shoves at Derek's shoulder without thinking. Everything freezes and Derek turns to look at him; Stiles winces and tries to look repentant.

  Derek glowers at him and then stalks around the breakfast bar into the open plan living room, where the clothes he'd been wearing before Stiles had gone to bed are piled on the arm of the couch. Stiles clears his throat, pulling all of his friends' attentions back to him.

  "So," he says. "I'm alive."

  Lydia's the first to break free from the group and throw herself at him. He catches her easily, even manages to stay steady on his feet when Allison joins them; he wavers when Jackson and Isaac join their impromptu group hug, and collapses entirely when Scott barrels into them.

  "Don't scare us like that ever again," Allison insists, burying her head under his chin; she doesn't show any discomfort at having three werewolves piled more or less on top of her.

  "I can't promise anything," he says. "If we can find Kate's bones, life will be made marginally easier. If not, we'll have to be prepared for me to be hunted by a manic hellhound take two."

  "I'd hardly say I was _manic_ ," says Derek, fully dressed, jacket and all, as he pauses by the pile of people on the floor. He reaches over and picks up a mug of coffee, dropping a single sugar cube in and stirring it without a teaspoon. He quirks an eyebrow at them and goes to perch on one of the barstools.

  "I have bacon," Stiles says after a moment. "The fake stuff, too. That's about all I have in the fridge. The white chocolate buttons I bought on a whim before realising I hated them are probably still there, too. I wasn't really expecting to be alive today."

  "I'll go get bagels," Isaac says, car keys already hanging from his fingers as he climbs to his feet. Everyone else follows suit; Lydia sidles around to sit at the breakfast bar while Allison perches on the counter next to Stiles' perpetually empty fruit bowl. "What do hellhounds eat?"

  "Meat," Derek says, grinning over his coffee cup. Stiles watches his eyes flash red and his teeth seem pointier than usual for a moment. "The bloodier the better."

  Isaac stares, and then shakes his head. "I don't think they do steak for breakfast," he says lightly. "Cream cheese and cinnamon it is. Anyone want to come with?"

  "Scott," Stiles says. "Scott and Jackson, you guys should go with Isaac."

  "With _him_? I'm not leaving--" Allison gives Scott a mild look, eyebrows high, almost daring him to finish his sentence. "--Right. Okay, then. Bagels."

  Jackson looks as though he wants to protest and so Stiles preempts him. "There's a hellhound in my apartment. Allison, Lydia and I can handle things should they go south, whereas if any of you three stay and one of us goes, Derek goes where I go which, at this stage, would be like begging for chaos and bloodbaths, and if one of you got it into your heads to try and take the nice hellhound on, you'd destroy my apartment and get us _all_ killed. So, werewolves out. Humans, hellhound and banshee stay."

  Grumbling, Scott and Jackson fall into step with Isaac, leaving the apartment.

  "What happens if the _nice hellhound_ decides he likes his odds against a handful of humans?" Allison asks so casually that Stiles almost mistakes it for idle chatter.

  "Lydia?" Stiles prompts.

  "Nothing," says Lydia after a moment of concentrated frowning. "You're in danger, Stiles, but it's faint. Death is close but not imminent."

  Derek perks up at this assessment, looking less studiously bored than he has all morning. "A banshee? How did you manage to rope a banshee into your little wolf pack, Stiles?"

  Lydia makes a disparaging sound. "I wasn't roped into anything," she says. "I chose this and will continue to. These are my friends, not mere allies."

  Derek hums, surveying Lydia interestedly, chin propped up on one hand. "Do you know how rare you are? How valuable?"

  "I have an idea," she says, the perfect picture of disinterested as she pulls out a compact from her back and checks her lipstick. She snaps it shut and raises her eyebrows at Derek. "There's no price you could match, however."

  Derek's mouth does a funny thing, twisting a little before smoothing out. He turns his gaze to Allison, who meets it with a tilt of her head; Stiles has a startling moment of clarity, watching Derek inhale, and then flings himself across the kitchen at Derek when the hellhound's muscles tense, bunching up as smoke begins to swirl around him, eyes glowing red.

  " _Friend_!" Stiles squawks, planting himself between Allison and Derek. "She's our _friend_ , Derek. This is Allison Argent."

  Derek snarls and he's back in wolf-bear form, crouched on the breakfast bar like an oversized gargoyle. His eyes don't leave Allison though he makes no move to get past Stiles, whose heart hammers in his chest, realising what he's done -- he's just willingly thrown himself into the path of a pissed off hellhound, it's almost like he _has_ a death wish.

  "Well," Lydia says. "At least that narrows down our search. Allison, does your father still have your family history?"

  Allison nods, hops off the counter. She stays behind Stiles but gets closer, addressing Derek. He won't be visible to her, but there's a quiet growl coming from his throat so her guess is pretty spot-on. "I'm not her," she says. "Let me prove it to you. She's never met me and I her -- harming me wouldn't hurt her. If you hurt Stiles, though - if you hurt any of my friends - I'll show you how much worse than this Kate I can be."

  Derek bares his teeth, ears pinned back, but he doesn't move; he tracks Allison as she pulls out her phone and heads out into the apartment hallway to call her father.

  "Okay, buddy," Stiles says. "Off the counter. We're gonna have to get you some new clothes."

  He moves backwards and Derek doesn't jump down so much as step off. Shredded scraps of forest green cotton and black denim flutter around him as he does so, although his leather jacket is conveniently draped over the back of his barstool. Stiles gives him a look he hopes conveys ' _really?_ ' and ushers Derek into his bedroom.

  He raids his closet to find jeans and a shirt that might fit Derek's rather more muscular build, turning around to find Derek in human form again and entirely naked. Stiles reigns in the impulse to gawk but, judging by the smirk that rolls across Derek's face, he's not so sure he succeeds. He composes himself, grabs a pair of boxers and socks from his top drawer and stalks over to Derek.

  "We don't wolf out at our friends," he says, thrusting the clothes at Derek. "It's rude."

  Stiles trots back out into the apartment with as much dignity as he can muster and sits down on Derek's vacated bar stool. All of the scraps of Derek's clothing have been cleaned away and Stiles gives Lydia a grateful look. She reaches over and curls a hand over his forearm.

  Allison reappears at the same time Derek slinks out of Stiles' bedroom fully clothed once more.

  "I'll go over and pick up the books with Scott after breakfast," Allison says, hopping back up onto her perch. Derek hovers at Stiles' shoulder, making no move to regain his seat, though he's procured the white chocolate from somewhere and is enthusiastically snacking on it.

*

Derek actually sticks close to Stiles the entire time his friends are in the apartment. He notices the third time he goes to shift his weight and feels Derek do the same just outside of his peripheral vision. He doesn't say anything, though, not even when Derek disappears into Stiles' bedroom and returns as a wolf, sprawling out behind the couch.

  Everyone retires for the evening -- Scott is reluctant to leave, but Stiles shoos him, assuring him he'll call should he wake up to find a limb conspicuously missing and a bloody trail leading towards the _nice hellhound_. Derek snaps his teeth lazily from his hiding place.

  There's a moment where Stiles is standing in his own bedroom doorway looking out towards where Derek is; he hasn't moved in the few hours it's been since he lay down. "I'm, uh - I'm going to bed, now," he says, immediately feeling ridiculous. "Uh, so, goodnight."

  Stiles closes his door, grabs a quick shower and collapses into bed after pulling on a pair of sweats.

 

He wakes up in something of a panic because he can't feel his feet, but the moment he actually gains full consciousness, he recognises the warm weight sprawled atop of shins.

  "Dude," he says, flattening his duvet to glare down at Derek. "You're so washing my sheets. You shed, you clean - them's the rules."

  Derek opens one eye to look at him, and then closes it again, huffing and settling.

  Stiles kicks his legs and Derek rolls onto his side, pinning his thighs and down to the mattress. Stiles wriggles in protest. "Come on, dude -- we're going grocery shopping today," he says. "I wanna get there early so I don't spend all afternoon queueing."

  Derek doesn't look as though he's going to move for a few long moments but eventually, he rubs his muzzle over the duvet and yawns, pushing himself up onto all four paws and stretching languidly. Stiles watches, half transfixed as the wolf steps off of the bed and wanders into Stiles' closet. By the time Stiles has fought free of his bedding, Derek's reemerging wearing a plain v-neck and jeans.

  Stiles wisely chooses not to point out that there's no underwear in the closet, though it doesn't stop the thought from floating distractedly across his mind.

  Derek pauses and looks at him. "I thought we were going shopping," he says.

  "We are," Stiles says, but doesn't move. "Uh. Yeah, wow, that worked, I guess. Usually I have to beg, whine and wheedle until Scott even crawls out from under his comforter."

  "I'll make coffee," Derek says, and abruptly turns and strides from the room. Stiles watches after him, perplexed.

  "I live with an alien," he says to the ceiling. "Moves when I tell him, walks like he learned by _reading_ about it, makes coffee without being asked."

  Derek pokes his head through the open doorway. "Sugar? You're out of milk."

  Stiles stares, mouth hanging open, before realising he's being asked if he wants sugar in his coffee, and not being addressed by pet names. "Sure, yeah, two -- thanks."

  Derek disappears again and Stiles smacks a hand over his face, berating himself mentally before clambering out of bed and changing as quickly as he can, wary that Derek could materialise at any moment.

  "Okay, ground rules for public safety," Stiles says, smoothing his hoody over his stomach and accepting the mug Derek hands to him when he walks out into the apartment. "No maiming, no growling, no gore of any kind, no transforming, no flashing eyes or teeth at anyone, no scaring the locals. No chaos, no havoc, nothing eventful. We're going to have a nice, boring trip to the grocery story and a nice, boring trip back here where we'll continue to have a nice, boring day putting things away where they belong and maybe watch some nice, boring TV. Got it?"

  "Nice, boring, no having any kind of fun at all," Derek says, and is that a _teasing_ tone? Stiles squints at him. "Got it."

  "Good," Stiles says. "Blend in. You're human, as far as anyone is aware, which means no talking about howling at the moon or insatiable blood lust while we're out. By all means, regale me with tales of your first unnecessary bloodbath when we're at home, but not in public… and probably don't mention them to the pack, either -- they don't seem too fond of you."

  Derek goes to put his shoes on in response. Stiles shakes his head, downs his coffee and goes to collect his own, picking up his car keys.

  "I've never been to a grocery store," Derek says as they exit the building and Stiles leads the way to his Jeep. "We didn't have those two hundred years ago, and… well, we don't have them downstairs, either."

  "You get a point for subtlety," Stiles says. "One out of a potential three -- you can't mention how old you are. You know the average human doesn't look like you at two hundred years old."

  Derek slants a look at him. "Two hundred and twenty-eight," he says. Stiles rolls his eyes. "December 25th, 1789."

  "You're a _Christmas_ baby? Dude, that's gotta be against a law of nature somewhere, or something. Demons can't be _Christmas babies_."

  "Not technically a demon," Derek says.

  "Right. Just a dead, evil werewolf," Stiles bites back. "So different."

  "I wouldn't say _evil_."

  "Really? What would you say?"

  "Ambiguous to morality?"

  "Dead, ambiguously moral werewolf," Stiles says, in the same tone. "Still doesn't sound much better than demon, dude."

  "And 'human' sounds _so_ much better than 'irritating gnat'."

  "Hey, this irritating gnat is helping you with your vendetta, be nice to the irritating gnat."

  "Nice and boring?"

  "You're learning! And they say old dogs don't learn new tricks."

  "Dog jokes weren't even funny in the 1800's, gnat."

*

By some small miracle, they survive grocery shopping. Stiles had to peel Derek away from the butcher's counter more than once, but overall it's a successful trip - Stiles even managed to pick up a couple of packs of shirts, boxers, socks and two pairs of jeans for Derek.

  "Dude," Stiles says. "We're gonna have to get you a job or something if this keeps up. I can't spend a small fortune on meat every time we go to the supermarket."

  Derek turns to look at him, a multipack of Reese's in one hand and a tub of cream cheese in the other. "I have money," he says, as though just remembering this fact. "Kate makes sure we're well off if we're spending time up here."

  Stiles gazes at him, nonplussed. "Where's your wallet?"

  "In the car," he says, looking just as surprised as Stiles feels. "I have a car. I can drive, apparently. My car is outside. That's how I got here."

  Stiles slowly closes the freezer door from where he's been mosaicing steaks and turns to face Derek fully. "You got here by appearing in my apartment."

  "I was let loose at Kate's crossing," Derek says. "There was a black car with everything I would need to blend in as human and track you in the passenger seat. A photograph - the one you buried to summon her. That's how I found you. I drove here and invited myself in."

  "You arrived at midnight exactly," Stiles says.

  "I did. I sat outside for two minutes and twelve seconds," Derek says, nodding, and then pauses, looking thoughtful. He focuses on Stiles again. "We don't often remember how we arrived at our quarry. I'm getting stronger, getting myself back."

  "I'm not sure whether that's reassuring or terrifying," Stiles says. "If you could let me know whether or not to just force feed you rock salt because you're gonna flip out and rip me to pieces, I'd appreciate it."

  Derek frowns at him. "Stronger as in I'm resisting her a little easier," he says. "If I remember my journey here, it's a sign of my own consciousness. It means I'm more in control, if anything."

  "Conveniently doesn't mention my salt and iron barriers don't work on him until I find a fucking _bear_ of a wolf in my bed, conveniently doesn't mention how little control he has until he realises he actually has some," Stiles says, directing his eyes to the ceiling. "Anything else you want to conveniently forget to mention, buddy?"

  Derek gives him an owlish look. "I'm here to harvest your immortal soul and drag it to hell to rot for all eternity," he says drily. "Anything up from that has got to be at least a small bonus."

  Stiles squints at him and then goes back to unpacking the rest of the groceries.

*

Allison and Lydia turn up the next day with a copy of Chris' family history and Derek doesn't even so much as sneer in Allison's direction from where he remains sprawled on the loveseat with Stiles' battered copy of War and Peace for the entire duration of their visit.

  "If you're here more than a month, I expect you to start paying rent," Stiles says as he prepares dinner -- steak. Allison left for her weekly dinner with Scott's mom over an hour ago and Lydia caught a ride with her to a nail bar across town. It would appear that Stiles' friends are quite over their concerns for his safety.

  Derek looks up from his book. "I'll set up a monthly payment into your account," he says, sitting up and dogearing the page.

  Stiles watches Derek circle the counter to wash his hands -- at least he's not a _complete_ barbarian -- before his brain catches up with Derek's words. "Are you planning on staying longer?"

  Derek gives him a look as though trying to figure out of Stiles is being deliberately dense. "Stiles," he says. "My charge is to pursue you until the death of one or both of us. I can't actually stop."

  Stiles carefully places the knife he's been using to chop carrots down. "I thought if we got rid of Kate's deals..."

  "I told you," Derek says, growing more and more tense by the minute. "I told you, any of her loose hounds will complete the last task they were assigned and return to hell with her. Not killing you means my last task will never be complete. It means I'll always be around."

  Stiles looks at Derek, sees the rigid line of him and sighs. "Okay, time out," he says. "I'm not going back on our agreement. I kill Kate, you don't kill me -- believe me, I'm happy with that arrangement, no take backs or anything. I just... I think we need to go over our post-Kate arrangements."

  Derek gazes at him. "I haven't lived on Earth for over two hundred years," he says. "I'm not a demon -- hellhounds don't get to just hitch a ride in the nearest human and visit whenever they want. I know nothing about this century, nor the one before it. We're given whatever skills are suited to our survival on Earth -- history nor human cultures were viewed as necessary survival skills. Kate clearly deemed a modern accent and vocabulary and the ability to drive more essential. Think of it like... updating an archive. I have all the knowledge and skill I had as a werewolf, when I was alive, but the ability to mine for gold or pull a plough around a field isn't suited to this day."

  Stiles rubs a hand over his face. "Okay. All right. You know what? We can work with this. You can read, talk and understand. Can you write? I figure you probably can -- you might have needed to write down directions or something. You have the basics. If you're gonna be around, we should get you a cellphone and show you how to use a computer..."

  Derek reaches around and plucks a carrot stick from Stiles' chopping board, snapping it between his teeth. "How about dinner first?"

  Stiles flushes without really knowing why -- okay, he knows why: something to do with the way Derek's jaw works as he chews, the warmth of his body being so close to Stiles' without actually touching him, the fact he smells like Stiles' shower gel and laundry detergent mixed with leather -- and forces his attention to chopping the last of the carrots.

  "What should I do?"

  "Drain the potatoes and mash them," Stiles says. "There's a strainer -- the silver thing with the holes in it -- by the sink, masher -- smaller silver thing with holes -- is beside it. Put in a knob of butter."

  Derek sets about his given task with a single minded industriousness Stiles envies. They're quiet for a while as they finish up, Stiles searing the steaks just as Derek drains the last of the vegetables, plating up.

  "You haven't been on Earth since Kate brought you back?"

  Derek reaches for his plate once Stiles has added his steak to it, looping around to sit at the breakfast bar before answering. "I died and haven't been back," he says. "She kept me down there with her. I was her _favourite_."

  Stiles watches him examine the tines of his fork before he spears a carrot, the barest hint of a snarl crossing his face. "So I was supposed to be your first, what, mission?"

  Derek looks at him. "You were my chance to prove myself to her," he says. "Two hundred years I've been by her side, two hundred years for her to consider letting me out, and I fuck it all up in a couple of days."

  Stiles slides his own plate over the counter and rounds it to sit up beside Derek.

  "She said if I fucked it up, she'd make me watch her flay my sister all over again, then cut me open from neck to groin, make my sister watch me bleed out," Derek shrugs. "I can't go back. Won't."

  Stiles can't think of anything to say and so they eat in silence. Derek piles their empty plates and stands to head for the sink; Stiles reaches out without thinking and curls his hand around Derek's wrist. Derek freezes, still looking past Stiles at the sink.

  "We're gonna get her," Stiles says, quiet and determined. "I'll salt and burn her bones without a figment of remorse."

  Derek's shoulders lose some of their tension and his spine relaxes a little; he nods once and Stiles lets his hand fall into his own lap, watching Derek begin washing up.

  "I'm gonna go write for a bit," Stiles says. "If you need anything, let me know. Otherwise, help yourself to whatever--within reason."

  Derek glances up at him and nods again. Stiles picks up the books Allison brought over and retreats into his study. He opens his laptop and also pulls out an A4 notepad, a pen and his trusty yellow highlighter.

*

It's full dark outside when the study door creaks open and Derek pads in. It seems to be his evening routine - he stays in human form all day and then whenever he senses there's nothing more to do, he changes into wolf form (he's gotten good at going into another room to strip and fold his clothing in a neat pile before changing) and finds a spot near Stiles to sit or lie down.

  "The hardwood can't be comfortable," says Stiles as Derek lies down under his desk. "Should I start investing in blankets for you?"

  Derek huffs and noses at his ankle.

  "I probably should anyway," Stiles muses. "This is technically a two bedroom apartment - I just use this room as a study. My dad's gonna have a couple of questions about my sudden roommate. I could tell him you're my secret boyfriend, I suppose."

  Derek sits up fast, the top of his head colliding with the underside of the desk. Stiles snorts. "You okay, bud?"

  Derek grumbles.

  Stiles grins at his laptop. "I should. Tell him we met online and you came from a super old fashioned background where homosexuality was all kinds of banned and prohibited. Then you met me and I began to make your pants feel tight and your... your _manhood_ tingle. Oh my God, it would be so much fun."

  Derek gives a pitiful whine.

  Stiles laughs. "I almost like you better like this. No smartass comebacks - I can cope with the huffing and puffing."

  Derek lies back down with a grunt.

*

The next two days pass in a blur of Stiles squinting at photocopies of old pages where half of the cramped handwriting is in French and the other half is illegible. Derek finishes War and Peace and Stiles orders him a cellphone with an unlimited plan, helping him set up an Amazon account.

  Scott and Isaac come around twice, once with enough pizza to feed the entire building, and the second time to take advantage of Stiles' XBox -- Isaac doesn't own one and Scott's got broken during an argument over Mario Kart that got physical. Stiles is under no illusions that they're also checking up on Derek, who pays them no mind except to thank them, at Stiles' prompting, for the two large pizzas he demolishes.

  Derek settles in. He's at the bottom of Stiles' bed every morning in wolf form when Stiles wakes up, despite usually having lain down elsewhere the previous evening - indeed, by the time a week has passed since Derek's arrival, Stiles has started just leaving his bedroom door open.

  "You don't happen to be able to read French?" Stiles asks, twisting his body to stretch out his spine as he leaves his study clutching his notepad. Derek looks up from his phone, open on his Kindle app and holds a hand out. Stiles flops down beside him, giving him the notepad.

  "No," Derek says after a few moments. He hands the notepad back. "Why are you writing it back out in French?"

  "Allison's the only one who knows any French," Stiles says. "And she said reading the journals gave her a headache so it'd be a slow process. This way, it's in my handwriting, which she and Lydia are experts in reading because they've spent half of their lives reading my plot outlines and manuscripts -- I like writing stuff by hand. I'm probably solely responsible for at least a small country's worth of deforestation."

  "You're a writer?"

  Stiles stares at him. "Steve Stark," he says slowly. "My pen name. I caught you reading one of my books the other day, dude. I tell you every time I'm gonna go and write for a bit."

  Derek frowns. "The crime books about werewolves?"

  "That's me," Stiles says. "Scott approved and everything. At least half the shit in those books is based on stuff that literally, actually happened. My editor tells me I have a very vivid imagination. Even takes some of it out saying it's _too_ unbelievable."

  "I did wonder why you had all of the books and none of them looked as well read as the rest."

  "I have two copies of all of them. One is probably not even legible anymore -- I'm one of the elite few authors my publishers don't actively encourage to do book readings. I get distracted and start changing things to make them more interesting."

  "I like them," Derek says. "They're a nice, fluffy escape from how the last two hundred years of my existence have gone."

  "The opening scene is a woman being chopped to pieces and watching her killers drink her blood."

  Derek flashes a sharp toothed smile. "Nine thousand and sixty four shallow lacerations before a twenty two year old male werewolf in good physical, if not mental, condition begins to _beg_ for someone to slit his throat and be done, after watching every member of his family be mutilated and humiliated in front of him, up to and including his six year old sister."

  The silence that follows is heavy. Stiles clears his throat a few times, quite lost for words. "My editor probably wouldn't let me keep that," he says eventually. He wants to reach over, lay a comforting hand on Derek's arm or curl his arm over Derek's shoulders, but he doesn't know how any kind of physical contact will be received. Had it been Scott, Allison, Lydia or even Jackson or Isaac, he'd be unable to stop himself from reaching out.

  "Probably not," Derek says. "Why use a pen name?"

  "Stiles Stilinski isn't a name that garners expectation," Stiles says with a shrug. "I actually started using it - S. Stark - in college. There was a class I took where everyone discussed making yourself your own brand, and the pros and cons of pen names; I decided not to miss out on the opportunity of naming myself after a couple of superheroes and it kind of just stuck. It's good to have that little bit of separation, as well, I guess."

*

  "Idaho!"

  Stiles jumps, spinning in his chair to look at Allison as she bursts into his study. "California!"

  She rolls her eyes at him and hurries over, slapping Stiles' notepad down on the desk before him; Derek pads into the room looking curious, and Isaac appears behind him. "Kate was one of the French immigrants to come over to the Americas some time between 1760 and 1790. From what we can figure, it looks like she was born in 1755 and died in 1790 -- obviously, there's no record of her reappearing as a crossroads demon, but we have to assume she was back before--"

  "--1811--" Derek supplies, leaning so close over Stiles' shoulder that Stiles can feel the warmth of him.

  "--Right," Allison nods. "But that's all nothing relevant to anything, really, just a bit of information we should probably record somewhere. Anyway, Kate came over here from France in the late 1700's, and she died here, so we don't have to go trawling all over Europe to find her bones. Her death was recorded in the town -- city -- of Coeur d'Alene in Idaho."

  Stiles frowns at the map on his wall - it's too far away to be of any real use, but Allison gets the point. "Three and a half hours on a plane, then about forty minutes from Spokane International," she says. "Approximately, it's a thirteen to fourteen hour drive from here to there. Dad has family in Spokane."

  "What do you say, buddy? Roadtrip?" Stiles asks, turning his head to look at Derek; Derek's head is still craned over his shoulder so they almost bump noses. Derek doesn't move, merely blinking, so Stiles leans to one side just a little to see him better without going cross eyed. "Only, I'm not sure how you'll cope on a plane. I could go up on my own--"

  "--I'm coming. We'll drive."

  "Sweet," Stiles says. "We should leave as soon as. Split the drive over two days. As much as I'm sure your driving skills are perfect, I'm not letting a hellhound with the occasional anger issue behind the wheel of my baby, so I'll be driving the whole way."

  "We need to plan," Derek says. "If she's in a graveyard, on hallowed ground, I may not be able to help dig. If she's not in a graveyard, I don't know if she'll have found her bones and hidden them."

  "She was buried in a cemetery," Allison says, circling the name of it. "So the ground is probably hallowed. Scott should go with you - he'll be able to help dig."

  "This isn't gonna be easy, is it?"

  "You literally made a deal with the devil," Isaac says, always helpful. "I'm pretty sure you catapulted past 'easy' years ago."

  Stiles makes a face. "Okay, we'll drive up to Idaho via, what? Portland? Which road's best to hit? The Interstate - take the I-5, maybe? We could stop in Salem and then again in Spokane. I don't wanna get stuck in Portland, though. Maybe we'd be better taking the highway. I'll figure it out later."

  Allison hums. "I'll ask my dad about our family up there. Maybe Scott and I can fly up for the weekend, make sure you two get where you need to go."

  "I'll go, too," Isaac says. They all turn to look at him. "Your family are werewolf hunters - Scott's not going as the only werewolf."

  Allison rolls her eyes. "My dad didn't figure out Scott was a werewolf until he tried to run him over--the second time. He could handle a weekend trip."

  "The more the merrier," Stiles says quietly, drawing all attention back to him. "If Kate's as unfortunately smart as we think she might be, there may be a confrontation, so I may be going up against a demon I have no real way of stalling with only a hellhound, who she _may_ be able to control, for backup. I don't really want to end up finding out what those teeth feel like after we've come so far. A werewolf or two plus an Argent may be kind of handy."

  Allison frowns, but she's nodding. "I'll check tickets, may as well include Lydia and Jackson if they're interested. We can't tell any of my dad's family that we're going to dig up an Argent's bones, though."

*

Derek hands over a credit card when Stiles talks about going to the store for roadtrip snacks, and tells him to bring in more white chocolate buttons. By the time Stiles gets back, there's a duffel bag with a couple of changes of clothing for each of them, and Derek's in-car charger. Stiles adds toothbrushes and hand sanitiser, plus his notepad, laptop and any other required gadgets.

  "We're only gonna be gone a few days," Derek says when he spots that Stiles has half a dozen grocery bags.

  "Rock salt," Stiles explains. "Lots and lots of rock salt. Plus, you're an undead werewolf and I have the metabolism of a whippet."

  It's not even dawn when they climb into the Jeep -- Derek has barely acknowledged the Toyota in the parking lot other than to search it, retrieving a leather wallet with a driver's license, an expired gym membership, two credit cards, two hundred dollars cash and a photograph of Kate in it, a set of car keys (still in the ignition) and a second leather jacket -- and by the time they're hitting the Interstate, Derek's eyes are closed, head lolling against the window, breathing even. Stiles has never witnessed Derek sleeping, but he turns down the radio anyway.

 

By the time the sun is fully risen, they're leaving the Interstate and merging back onto the highway; Stiles glances over to see Derek's eyes open but directed out the window. "Hey, so we're like, three quarters of the way to where I was gonna stop," he says. "But I didn't think traffic would be this light, so I think I'll keep going another few hours. Is that all right?"

  Derek turns his head to look at him. "I'd like to stop just to stretch," he says.

  "Sure. Keep an eye out for a gas station or rest stop; I gotta pee, anyway," Stiles says. "I was gonna hold it and stop in Klamath Falls, which was where I was planning on stopping this leg of the journey, but that's still about an hour and a half away, so if we stop before we get across the border into Oregon, pee and stretch, then continue on… maybe make it to La Pine, or something, by afternoon. I'll pass out for a few hours, we'll grab dinner, then head for Spokane."

  "Are we meeting the others there?" Derek asks, scarfing down a handful of white chocolate.

  "Yeah," Stiles says. "They'll be there by the time we're passing into Washington. Hopefully, they'll have all of the logistics worked out so I don't need to do much thinking, because I plan on sleeping as soon as I get there and going to salt and burn a demon's bones as soon as I wake up."

  "You're ambitious, for a human," Derek says. Stiles snorts.

  "Buddy," he says, reaching out automatically and at last minute deciding to clap Derek's seat rather than the originally intended target of his shoulder. "You have _no_ idea."

  There's a pause and Derek glances at Stiles' hand for a moment before looking away completely. "I've read your books," he says. "I have some idea."

*

  "You can touch me, you know."

  Stiles nearly falls flat on his face as he hops from the Jeep at the rest stop. "What?"

  Derek glances at him over the hood of the car, eyebrow cocked. "I'm not gonna bite your hand off if you touch me," he says. "You've hesitated a couple of times, reached out and come close. You seem to touch everyone else without thought. You don't make me uncomfortable, Stiles. I've literally been through hell."

  Stiles swallows and forces himself to look at Derek directly. "Ever think that's maybe why I don't?" he asks. "You've been through hell, had your body subjected to things even I couldn't even dream up -- maybe I figured you might have had enough of people touching you against your will. Just because I don't - or can't - make you uncomfortable, doesn't mean I should automatically assume I have the right to do anything I want."

  Derek gives him a long, searching look. "Okay," he says eventually. "Then you have my implicit consent to stop freezing up when you can't figure out how I'm going to react -- if I don't like something, I'll stop you or tell you."

  With that, he heads into the gas station. Stiles stares after him, aware after a minute that his mouth is hanging open.

*

Stiles stops in Bend. It's a little before midday and he's drained, so he picks a drive through diner at random and then stops at the first motel he find that doesn't look like it's straight out of a horror flick. Stiles has half finished his burger and fries by the time he pays for a night's stay -- he doesn't even have the energy to argue with the attendant that he's literally only stopping for a few hours -- and he mumbles something to Derek about waking him up before dark and trusting him not to murder, maim, threaten or terrify any of the locals, before collapsing onto a bed he's slightly dubious about but can't quite bring himself to care enough to inspect.

  He could be dead in the next twenty-four hours--he should be dead already, really, so he's not sure seedy motel beds are the biggest of his problems.

  Stiles wakes up in increments and eventually he opens his eyes to find himself curled against Derek in his wolf form. Derek lifts his head and Stiles becomes aware that Derek's been nosing at him gently until conscious.

  "You're really bad at this demon stuff," Stiles says as he sits up and eases away, unable to resist the urge to drag a hand through Derek's fur - surprisingly soft; solid, for all it looks kind of wispy and intangible. "When you tell a demon to wake you up, you kind of dread it and expect to be thrown into a cold shower or having the bed upended."

  Without warning, Derek's sitting there in all his naked glory. "Still not a demon, gnat."

  Stiles manages not to flinch or gawk at the sudden nudity and feels accomplished. "I'm gonna grab a shower and then we'll go get some dinner."

  Derek nods and Stiles watches him stand up and reach for the clothing piled at the end of the bed out of the corner of his eye, before forcing himself into the adjoining bathroom.

Derek's sitting at the end of the remade bed when Stiles leaves the bathroom, showered and redressed in the clothes he'd already been wearing.

  "What do you feel like?" Stiles asks. Derek frowns at him. "For dinner. I'm not really feeling burritos before a fight to the death, and we had burgers for lunch."

*

  "Hey," says Stiles, once they're back on the road. "I trust you too, you know. That's pretty much what you were saying, right? With the touching thing? It's cool with me if you wanted to touch me; too. Uh... not like, I mean, like--you know what I mean."

  Derek leans against the passenger side door, watching Stiles. "I know what you mean."

  "It's like, I trust you to touch me and not impale me on your very impressive claws, and you trust me... uh. Why _do_ you trust me? I mean, I'm not complaining! So, definitely, totally not complaining that I've earned the trust of a freaking _hellhound_."

  Derek shrugs. "Like you said," he says. "You trust me not to bite your hand off; I trust you when you say that. You trusted me enough to go to sleep right after meeting me, _knowing_ why I came, with just my word that I want Kate dead more than I'm interested in dragging you to hell."

  "To be fair," Stiles says. "I thought the salt and iron would keep you out, and I didn't sleep so much as pass out from exhaustion."

  "Point still stands," Derek says. "Mind-numbing terror can keep a human awake for days, so you weren't as scared as you should have been."

  Stiles shrugs. "My best friend was bitten by an insane werewolf when we were sixteen, the girl I thought was the love of my life turned out to be a fae death harbinger and hooked up with a then-werelizard and saved him -- and everyone else -- from himself by confessing her undying love to him; it then transpired my best friend's girlfriend came from what we now know to be an _extraordinarily_ long line of werewolf hunters -- whose mom tried to kill my best friend directly," he glances at Derek, who looks a little bemused. "What I'm trying to say is, by the time I finished high school, I'd kind of grown resigned to a life of blind panic and stress -- all of us had, so by the time we finished _college_ , we'd adapted.

  "When you first turned up, I was terrified -- out-of-my-mind verging-on-screaming-and-begging pants-shittingly terrified -- but you started _talking_. My friends were on the phone and they were already talking, calming me down, but then _you_ were talking and it's almost impossible for me to be scared when the object of my terror is doing something as mundane as talking, you know? It makes me think of movie villains monologuing and all I can ever picture is someone bursting in in a blaze of glory to save me like I'm some kind of damsel in distress. The longer you went without ripping my throat out, the more hope it's given me that I can get out of this, that it's not going to all just inevitably end up with me rotting away in the bowels of hell. You should know, if it does end that way, I'm applying for a cell right next to yours -- can you imagine being stuck with me for all eternity?"

  Derek's silent for a while, watching the passing scenery, before he glances at Stiles, lips curling just a little. "I can think of worse fates. I've experienced them."

  "Way to make a sweet statement suddenly angsty, asshole," Stiles says with an answering grin, thumping Derek's shoulder and it feels okay; it feels _natural_. Derek doesn't so much as growl, just smiles for a little longer and buries his attention in his phone, open once more on his Kindle app.

*

They're at a rest stop just outside of Kennewick when Derek frowns next. "We should have found my bones first," he says, and it's enough to make Stiles pause in the action of climbing back into the Jeep. It's Derek's first expression of doubt in their venture. Stiles closes his door and walks around to Derek's, pulling it open; Derek looks at him, expression open and sombre.

  "What?" Stiles asks, concerned. Their drive so far has been riddled with sharing little pieces of themselves, their lives, so Derek communicating doubt has alarm bells ringing in Stiles' mind because Derek's always been so _sure_ , ever since he turned up in Stiles' apartment. "Derek, talk to me."

  "If it came to it," Derek says, looking away and down. "If something _does_ go wrong, I can't go back. I won't. It'll be worse than before -- I guess, I guess it's selfish, but I _can't_ , Stiles. We should have found my bones first so that, if something happened, if it came to it, they could be burned. I mean, you have your friends; they'll take care of yours, but…"

  "Hey, hey, no," Stiles says. "Derek, look at me. Stop that. If they don't know already, then I'll make sure they take care of your bones, too, okay? Hell, I'll make sure they burn yours before they even think of mine. I agreed to do this with you, buddy, and you've grown on me a little more than you probably should have. On the crazy, wild, impossible chance that we _do_ end up slumming it in hell together, I'll be picking the torture rack right next to yours."

  Derek almost smiles at that, and then his expression sort of freezes and he shakes his head. He looks so _sad_ and Stiles just wants to wrap him in a hug. "They should burn your bones straight away. You shouldn't have to go through what I did, what my family did… and I can't watch it, either. I watched my family be torn ever so slowly to pieces; I can't watch it happen to you, too. And that's what she'll do -- Kate, I mean. She'll torture you and make me watch; she knows that hurting me doesn't get as much of a reaction from me as hurting someone I--someone I care about."

  Something fierce flares in Stiles' chest and he stops fighting the impulse; he reaches up and around Derek's shoulders, hauling him in and close. Derek goes tense all over; Stiles can practically _hear_ the cogs turning in his head, telling him that he isn't being hurt or attacked, that he's being _embraced_ , before Derek's hands are spanning his back and his shoulders and relaxing, almost sagging, under Stiles' arms.

  "But none of this matters, okay? You'll see. Because neither of us are going to die. We're gonna do this, then we're gonna start figuring out how to get you a job and an actual identity."

  Derek nods but doesn't let go. Which is fine, because now that Stiles is here, he's not sure he wants to either, not yet.

*

Allison is waiting at the end of a very long driveway for them looking somewhat apprehensive. Stiles stops so that she can climb into the Jeep and then proceeds up the gravel slowly to give her time to think.

  "We aren't telling any of them that half of us are werewolves," she says. "And we're _definitely_ not telling them that one of us is a hellhound. Lydia and Jackson have been holed up in their room making sure all of the details are worked out -- they're playing the newlyweds, so no one's disturbing them -- and we've worked out a kind-of plan; they're hammering out the details. We told them Derek has a severe phobia of flying, so that's why you decided to drive. As far as anyone's concerned, Scott and I finally have a long weekend free so I'm bringing him up to meet the family he didn't really get to see much of at the wedding, and I mentioned the plans to Lydia and Jackson who are recently married and both work so much so they haven't been able to get around to a honeymoon, and Isaac's going through a tough time so Scott suggested bringing him to get him away from Beacon Hills for a while."

  "What about Derek and I?" Stiles asks cautiously.

  Allison grins. "You're our two hopelessly single, awkward friends with so much sexual tension between you that we all got fed up, invited you both along and then volunteered you to drive with Derek in the hopes you'd finally resolve some of that tension the only way that makes sense."

  Stiles and Derek glance at one another before Derek raises his eyebrows. "It mustn't have worked," he says drily. "Stiles' throat is still part of his neck. More's the pity."

  Stiles chokes on a laugh. "Kinky."

  Allison gives them a fond look before her expression becomes serious again. "Look, the reason I met you down here was that if Derek's reaction to me, even after I've been away from a lot of my family for a long time, was as extreme as it was--we're walking into an Argent household. There are four of them, not including me."

  Stiles shoots Derek a concerned look, who shrugs. "I can handle it," he says. "I have a lock on your scent. If I focus on you and your friends, I can control it."

  Allison nods as though this is what she's been thinking. "It's actually why we insinuated that, you know, there might be something between you two - they made sure you had rooms next to one another, and it'll explain any sneaking around you have to do."

  "That's actually a good idea," Stiles says. Allison smiles a knowing smile and settles back in her seat. The corner of the house -- more like veritable _mansion_ \-- is beginning to appear around the bend through the trees.

  "It's nearly 2a.m., everyone went to bed hours ago. We'll have breakfast with them and then Scott wants to announce plans to head out and explore Spokane, so we'll do that and go to a park or something and discuss the plan. For now, though, my uncle Cameron put aside some leftovers, so you can have something to eat and then I'll take you to your room."

  Stiles notices the singular use but doesn't comment; he sees Derek looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't say anything either.

*

Stiles catches Derek's arm after Allison shows them to Stiles' room - she points out that Derek's is right next door and then makes herself scarce. "Hey," he says. "You can, you know, come in. Rather than skulking around the hall until I fall asleep like you usually do."

  Derek has the good grace to look faintly embarrassed; Stiles grins at him and opens the door, ducking inside and leaving it open behind him. He drops the duffel bag on the bed and begins poking through it to find something to sleep in. Stiles looks up when the door clicks and spots Derek standing by it looking both unsure and determined. Stiles smiles and looks back down at the bag.

  "You probably shouldn't shift tonight," Stiles says, his throat feeling a little dry at the thought. "I mean, you know, just in case anyone decides to peek…"

  Derek says nothing as he stalks closer and Stiles is nervous for reasons that have nothing to do with what Derek is, what Derek could do to him.

  Okay, it has a little to do with what Derek could do to him - with what Stiles would _let_ Derek do to him. Stiles' heart is in his throat at the same time as he's sure it's about to burst right out of his chest. Derek reaches out and--

  --And plucks a pair of sweats from the duffel.

  Stiles pretty much collapses onto the bed as soon as Derek's turned away, systematically stripping out of his shirt, jeans and socks, having taken his shoes off at the door. Stiles nearly has a conniption when Derek pauses, hands on the waistband of his boxers, before he evidently decides those should go, too.

  The movements do awesome things to Derek's back and thighs, muscles rippling under his skin; there's a tattoo that Stiles has never noticed before and he realises, then, that this is the first Stiles has ever seen Derek's back -- it's the first Derek's shown him such an obviously weak spot. He wants to ask about it, the tattoo in particular, but he doesn't want to make a big deal of it.

  He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek as he pulls off his own jeans, socks and shoes, opting just to remain in his t-shirt and shorts. Stiles scrambles into bed and burrows down. Intellectually, he knows that technically Derek's been sleeping in his bed since he first arrived, but it's different now--it's different because Derek's wholly human-looking when he peels back the sheets on the other side of the bed and slides in; it's different because Stiles knows he can touch Derek now; it's different because they've shared little pieces of themselves with one another. In just a pair of Stiles' sweatpants, Derek is different.

  "So, hi," Stiles says after a moment. Derek turns his gaze away from the ceiling to look at him. "This is new."

  "It really isn't," Derek says.

  "Kind of is, dude."

  Derek rolls his eyes. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

  "Will you?" Stiles asks; Derek looks at him again. " _Do_ you? Sleep, I mean."

  "No," Derek says. "I don't need to, but I can close my eyes and pretend, if it makes you more comfortable sharing a bed with me."

  There are _so_ many ways Stiles could respond to that, so many ways he _wants_ to, but he refrains and folds his hands under his cheek. "I'm… I'm not _un_ comfortable. I just -- this is new territory for us, and the fact that I'm maybe not as uncomfortable about it as I should be…"

  He can't be quite sure, because it's dark, but the moonlight filtering through the blinds contorts as Derek's face moves, so he thinks Derek's smiling. Smirking, at the very least. "I know."

  "So, when you said I could touch you…"

  Derek's eyebrows go up.

  "I didn't mean--Oh my _God_ , I'm an embarrassment to myself," Stiles says, feeling himself flush like he's some high school teenager -- somewhere his sixteen year old self is groaning in despair that he's no more suave at twenty-four than he was back then. "I just, I'm a cuddler, and to save it from being awkward when I wake up drooling on you in the morning, you know? Forewarned is forearmed, and all."

  The bed shifts - Derek's lifting his arm. "Come here, Stiles."

  Stiles doesn't _scramble_ to obey, but it's a near thing. He tucks himself under Derek's arm, forcing himself to just breathe, to stay cool about this, because that is a very defined, very bare chest and he's not at all sure what to do with his hands, so he keeps his arms folded up between them.

*

Stiles is equal parts impressed by and pleased with himself when he wakes up and isn't drooling _or_ humping Derek's leg. He is, however, sprawled across Derek's body like it's a bearskin rug; his head's tucked in the hollow of Derek's throat and one of his legs is hooked between both of Derek's, one hand pressed between his ribs and Derek's, and the other flung out and hanging over the side of the bed.

  "Still new," Stiles mumbles when he eventually manages to wake his brain up enough to actually form words. "This is all very, very new."

  Derek hums in agreement and it's then that Stiles realises Derek's hands are laced together across the small of Stiles' back. Stiles lifts his head to look at Derek properly, which brings their faces so very close.

  Two things happen then: the first is that Stiles' mind supplies him with the fact Derek doesn't sleep and so he doesn't have the excuse of being a sleep cuddler to explain why he's holding onto Stiles which, to be fair, Stiles isn't even close to complaining about. The second is that, as soon as Stiles, heart racing, begins to lean in, the bedroom door flies open.

  "Stiles!"

  Stiles is going to murder Scott.

  "Oh my God! Dude, you should have--oh my _God_!" Scott yelps and backs straight out of the room, covering his eyes. " _Sock_! You're supposed to put a _sock_ on the door!"

  Stiles groans and lets his forehead drop to Derek's collarbone. It hits him then that they're not in his bed, not in his apartment. He yelps and struggles out of Derek's hold, running after Scott before he has the time to inform the _entire house_ as to what he and Derek were decidedly _not_ doing, thank you very much.

  "Dude, if you--"

  Stiles slaps a hand over Scott's mouth as he leaps down the last four stairs to catch up. "No," he says firmly, but his irritation and worry are fast dissipating. "Just… no, alright? Nothing was happening. I just woke up -- I'm still dressed, and he… well, he had pants on so we're good. And I mean, we're in someone else's house, I wouldn't be doing anything in someone else's bed, dude, that's just--I mean, not that anything's happening in _my_ bed, either, believe me, but…"

  Scott's eyes soften with sympathy and he frees his mouth of Stiles' hand, draping an arm around his shoulders. "Come on, man, come meet my family in law," he says. "My in-law family? Allison's dad's brother's family."

  "I'm wearing boxers and a t-shirt that I've been wearing over twenty four hours, dude, I should probably go shower first."

  Scott gives him an exaggerated sniff and Stiles laughs, shoving him away. "Make sure Derek puts on a shirt," he says. "Isaac ran into one of Allison's cousins on his way out of the bathroom yesterday and she can't take her eyes off him, now. If you're, uh, supposed to be staking any claims, you should probably make sure Derek's fully dressed at all times. Dude's ripped."

  "I'm aware," Stiles says. "Thanks. Wait, how do _you_ know that?"

  "He was naked in your kitchen the first time I met him, bro. Kind of makes an impression."

  "I miss the days he was more terrifying than sexy," Stiles says absently.

  Scott blinks at him. "That was… it was barely two weeks ago, Stiles."

  "Man, you told me you were gonna marry Allison thirty minutes after you gave her a pen on her first day at school," Stiles says. "My mom walked up to my dad and told her she'd let him take her to dinner if he'd pretend to arrest her to get her out of a blind date with a dude who kept trying to put his hand up her skirt. He arrested the dude for sexual harassment and took her out anyway; they never dated anyone else. I think two weeks is pretty slow if I compare myself to almost anyone else I know. And! And it's not like I'm talking _marriage_ or even going steady, dude; I'm just saying, I'm probably not as upset as I probably should be to have him stuck with me, potentially forever. And, like, it's not exactly a hardship to look at him, although it's getting _really_ hard to--uh, well, there's a bunch of other stuff I should probably talk to him about before I talk to you about it."

  Scott laughs and claps his shoulder. "Go get showered and dressed--get Derek showered and dressed, too. Breakfast should be ready in like, a half hour or so."

  When Stiles gets back to the room, Derek gives him a small smile over his shoulder from where he's making the bed. Stiles returns it, reassured that things haven't suddenly become awkward between them.

  "You want to shower first?" Stiles asks, for lack of anything else to say - he's burning to ask about the tattoo between Derek's shoulder blades, on full display for him again as he watches Derek smooth a corner of the duvet back. He's drawn out of a daydream involving plastering himself against Derek's back by Derek shrugging and straightening, going to retrieve a change of clothes from the duffel. "Um, Scott said to be wary of Allison's horny cousins."

  Derek quirks an eyebrow. "I'll be sure to let them know there's already been a claim staked," he says, flashes a grin and then _saunters_ past Stiles. Stiles is left gaping at the empty air feeling like he's flushing from his toes to the roots of his hair as he realises that Derek probably heard every mortifying word of his conversation with Scott.

*

They get through breakfast unscathed, though Derek sits as close as physically possible to Stiles and Allison's family keep giving them knowing looks. Scott announces his intent to take their little motley crew out to explore the city and Isaac pointedly mentions how excited he is to get some breathing space to keep Allison's cousin Patricia from tagging along.

  Allison's uncle happens to be pretty cool and a mean chef to boot. He and Lydia put together a picnic when Scott mentions perhaps stopping somewhere secluded and scenic.

  By the time they're on the road it's nearly noon and Stiles is getting anxious about having everything ready on time. Derek crowds him out of the house as soon as Stiles starts edging towards the door.

  "You know, if they were suspicious before, they _definitely_ think something's going on now," Stiles says when they reach the Jeep.

  Derek shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "Let them think what they want. You were going to start yelling or breaking down if you'd had to assure Patricia you didn't need a hand with anything one more time."

  "We're cool, right?" Stiles asks. "I mean, after last night, and this morning; and the conversation I know you heard me having with Scott. I just don't want you to think that I'm super creepy or anything..."

  "Creepy? Stiles, you're the least creepy person I've met in two hundred years," Derek says, and it's bizarre how he makes that sound like a compliment and an insult rolled into one, all the while looking kind of fond and amused.

  "I just--I know that you don't like it when people get too close and touch you without your say so, and I shouldn't really talk about you like you're just aesthetically pleasing, or--"

  "Aesthetically pleasing," Derek repeats, and he's actually smiling now. Stiles wants to die a little bit. "I don't mind being _aesthetically pleasing_ , Stiles. Not to you. You know you're allowed to touch me; it doesn't make me uncomfortable. _You_ don't make me uncomfortable. You go out of your way to make sure I'm as comfortable as I can be, which is one of the reasons it's so easy for me to trust you, because I came into your life for the express purpose of killing you, and you've shown me nothing but kindness. You haven't even halfheartedly attempted to kill me."

  Stiles leans back against the Jeep. "Don't put that down to me being kind," he says. "It's more like I was too lazy. There was so much stress because we knew I was going to die, and then you turned up and were all like 'hey, guess what, let's _not_ kill Stiles!', and I was--am--pretty happy to go along with that, so it's not like that was… uh…"

  Derek cups Stiles' jaw, thumb stroking the skin just under his eye; all of Stiles' breath leaves him in a rush; he finds himself tilting his chin towards Derek and he's pretty sure his heartbeat must be deafening Derek. Derek's eyes drop to Stiles' mouth and his thumb traces Stiles' lower lip; he's moving in and--

  "Isaac, don't!"

  Derek jerks away and shoves his hand into his pocket, taking two small steps away and squinting into the distance.

  Stiles hates his friends. He sags against his Jeep and stares mutinously at Isaac as he approaches. He's not the only one -- Scott and Lydia come charging after him, Lydia looking beside herself with fury.

  "What?" asks Isaac, finally noticing the glares directed at him.

  "Nothing. Are we going? Let's go," Stiles says--snaps, really--circling the Jeep and climbing behind the wheel. Part of him takes comfort in the fact Scott and Lydia had obviously tried to run interference once they'd noticed Stiles and Derek disappearing together, but he's also a little mortified that they'd even noticed at all, that they'd even known what was happening--what was going to--what _might have_ happened between him and Derek.

  "Sweet. Shot--"

  "--Veto," Stiles says instantly, not even feeling a little bad. "Derek's shotgun. My car, my hellhound, my rules."

  Isaac frowns. Allison comes striding out of the house with Jackson in tow, both of them hefting picnic baskets; Scott hurries over to take Allison's and she kisses his cheek before holding up a set of car keys, heading for a parked car.

  "Isaac can ride up front if he wants to," Derek says.

  "No he can't," Stiles says before Isaac can accept.

  "Isaac, you and Jackson can ride with us," Scott says. "Stiles, do you mind if we put these in the Jeep?"

  "Go ahead," Stiles shrugs and watches Scott load the baskets in, holding the door open for Lydia to delicately pick her way inside. Once she's settled, Scott herds the others to Allison's borrowed SUV, probably already explaining to Isaac where, exactly, his error had been. Stiles resists the urge to press his forehead against the steering wheel and refuse to ever move again.

*

The late August air is still pleasant enough that they're all sitting on a grassy patch in the middle of a park. To any onlookers, they just look like a group of friends hanging out on a picnic blanket, maybe studying, if anyone were to take into consideration the amount of notepads, books and assorted laptops and tablets between them all.

  "The cemetery Kate's buried in has security," Allison says. "More than is usual for a graveyard that old, so we can only assume it's private security of some kind. The small amount of snooping I managed to do, I don't _think_ my uncle and his family have anything to do with it, but I wouldn't be prepared to bet my life on it or anything."

  "If Kate knows…" Derek says, and it's the first thing he's said since they were in the Argent's driveway. "If she knows we're after her bones…"

  "Hey," Stiles says, snagging Derek's arm; Derek looks at him, a small frown creasing his brow. "We're gonna do this, okay? If she can't set foot in the cemetery, we'll be fine. We just need to get there and we're home free, yeah?"

  "I won't be able to," Derek says quietly. "If she can't get into the cemetery, then there's no chance I'll be able to, either."

  Stiles squeezes Derek's bicep. "Trust me," he says, turning his arm to offer the vulnerable part of his wrist to Derek - offering his own trust while he asks for Derek's. Derek inhales sharply and nods, looking away. Stiles moves his hand to Derek's shoulder and leaves it there, thumb occasionally straying back and forth.

  The others all look in different directions when he turns back to them. Subtlety, thy name is not Stiles' friends.

  "The security isn't too bad," Jackson says, drawing attention away from the fact it's painfully obvious everyone's trying _not_ to look at Stiles; Stiles could _hug_ him for it. "There's a camera or two, but we can loop those. The main issue we're going to have is with the guards. From what Allison's been able to find out, there are two at any one time and they switch out every few hours. A fire coming from a grave would definitely draw attention… if the digging doesn't, first."

  Stiles runs a hand over his face. "So we're going to have to take her bones from the grave to burn them," he says. "Of course we are. This is my life we're talking about. Nothing's ever nice and simple. What if we miss some? It's gonna be virtually impossible to pick up every single bone unless we sit there all night sifting the entire grave."

  "Molotov it," Lydia says. "Pick up as much as you can and then scatter salt and throw one in. Then run like hell and it'll just look like a grave robbery, with a bonus of leaving no trace DNA behind."

  "Won't that attract her attention?" Scott says. "Like, won't she look down and realise half her foot is missing, or something?"

  "Probably," says Lydia. "But we don't have another option. Burning her bones there and then runs the risk of only some bones being destroyed before security extinguish the fire, so she might still survive and drag Derek and Stiles back to hell with her. We need to ensure complete destruction of her. By all rights, she should be nothing more than dust by now because she's been dead so long, but my sources seem to say things are different for demon bones, so she may still be mostly in tact, structurally."

  "Where do we go once we have her bones? I'm guessing we can't just stride out of the graveyard and burn her on the sidewalk," Stiles says.

  "Continue running like hell," she shrugs. "Find somewhere that it's not easy to see from the sidewalk or a building and burn her."

  "I'll drive," Derek offers. "I'll wait outside the cemetery and we'll drive out to a field or something."

  Nobody says anything when Stiles doesn't protest, but he knows what they're all thinking: Scott's driven Roscoe maybe four or five times, Allison once--and never again; Stiles _still_ has traumatic flashbacks--and Jackson twice, all in the years he's had the Jeep. Scott because Stiles had been incapacitated, and Jackson because Scott _and_ Stiles had been.

  And just like that, they have a plan. A kind-of plan. One that's probably going to get Stiles killed, but it's a plan all the same, which is more than they've had in the past.

*

Stiles pulls Scott to one side a little later, when Derek's gone off to the bathroom and the others are bickering about whether to go to the theme park just outside of Coeur d'Alene, or into the town itself to explore.

  "Hey, uh, can we talk?"

  Scott nods, frowning. "If this is another speech about you potentially dying--"

  "--It isn't. Well, not entirely," Stiles says as they walk a little farther away. "Look, if I do die--don't even deny it's a possibility, okay? I'm going up against a fucking _demon_ \--so if I do die, I need you to find Derek's bones. I mean, if he comes with me. Which, if I die, he probably will because the task Kate gave him will be complete and I'll be in hell, so if anything happens, you need to find Derek's bones and burn them, okay? Burn his family's, too. Make sure none of them can be used against their will again. Promise me you'll do that, Scott, please."

  Scott's still frowning. "I will," he says. "I promise, but please try not to die. I wouldn't even know where to start looking for Derek's bones."

  "He lived on a farm, worked in mines in Northern California, so he might have been close to where we actually live. His family were wiped out in something that was made to look like a gas leak in 1811. Just look for local deaths around that time and you'll probably find him."

  "I'll find him," Scott says. "We'll find him."

  Stiles nods and rubs his hand over his forehead. "Thanks, buddy. You know I'll do it myself if something happens to him and not me, but… you know, prepare for the worst, pray for the best."

*

They go back to the Argent house just before nightfall to put in an appearance, and then Stiles makes a point of mentioning that he saw a couple of clubs he wants to check out. Derek and Scott agree to go, followed by Jackson and Lydia, and then Allison points out they'll need a designated driver and says she'll go, too. Isaac sits looking disgruntled at the attention Patricia's paying him -- if he agrees, she'll want to come along, and there isn't really a way to refuse her.

  Isaac mentions he doesn't like clubs and Patricia deflates.

  "We have two cars," Stiles says. "So you could drop us off, maybe? And pick us up?"

  Isaac's eyes light up, sensing he's forgiven for earlier that day.

  After all rushing for showers and changing clothes, they all head for the door; Stiles manages to sneak his and Derek's duffel out onto the porch before Allison's uncle Cameron appears in the foyer to tell them to have a good time and to stay safe.

  Derek's hand curls around Stiles' on the gearstick and stays there for the duration of the drive into Coeur d'Alene. Lydia and Jackson, tucked into the back of the Jeep, don't say a word.

*

They pull over a block or so from the cemetery; Stiles remains where he is as everyone else piles out of the car; Derek opens the driver's side door while Jackson and Lydia head to where the others are standing by the SUV.

  "Don't you dare end up dead before I get back here," Stiles says after a few moments, swinging his legs around so that he's sitting sideways on the seat.

  "I'll do my best," Derek says. "I'll see you soon."

  Stiles nods and hops out of the seat; the keys are still in the ignition. "Call my phone if anything happens. I'll call yours when we're about to leave. And, uh, be nice to Roscoe," he says, clutching the door frame. Derek leans in and brushes their lips together, barely long enough for it to be called a kiss.

  "Trust me," he whispers, and then he's climbing behind the wheel; Stiles stands stock still for a full minute, mind reeling, before Derek gives him a gentle shove and Scott calls him over.

  "You are an asshole. We are not finished here; I am _not_ finished with you," Stiles says, pointing at Derek, who grins at him. He whirls back around and jogs over to the others where Isaac's handing out shovels. Lydia and Allison are pulling jeans on under their dresses and Lydia's changing her heels for trainers. Once done, she roots around in her bag and pulls out a fistful of vials.

  "Self igniting," she says, handing one to each of them. "Chuck and run. Be careful with them."

  "How are we carrying the bones?" Stiles asks, and there's a pause. "Nobody thought about a bag to transport them in."

  Lydia's jaw works and she looks furious, beginning to dump all of her stuff into the SUV. "You owe me a new Prada bag. I am _not_ going to use this once it's been used to transport a dead person."

  "Lydia," Stiles says, taking the handbag when she thrusts it at his chest. "If I survive this, I will buy you any bag you want. Even the ridiculous three thousand dollar one you were lusting over a few weeks ago."

  Her expression softens and she smiles at him.

  "Okay, plan is to let the wolves do most of the digging - Stiles, we mostly need you to pick up the bones and _run_. We'll deal with the Molotov and run interference. Then it's all down to you and Derek. Do you have your lighter? And salt?"

  "Salt's in the car," Stiles says. "I have the Molotov as well as a couple of Zippos strategically placed. Derek's keeping the car running; I'm to call him when I'm on my way."

  Everyone looks at one another and nods. Allison purses her lips worriedly. "Be careful, Stiles. We know Derek would never dream of harming you, but none of us -- not even Derek -- knows how much control Kate will have over him."

  "We'll be okay," Stiles says more bravely than he feels.

*

The digging is slower and less exciting than the adrenaline coursing through Stiles dictates it should be. Jackson exiles him from the grave before they've even gotten two feet downwards. Stiles hops from foot to foot, feeling a little strange about hanging around by the side of a grave with a thousand dollar handbag hanging from the crook of one arm. Allison's standing with him and Lydia's waiting just inside the cemetery gates - across the threshold of hallowed ground but close enough that she has a quick exit; she's also closest to the guard station.

  "Got her," Scott says some time later; Isaac clicks on a flashlight, holding it low enough that it doesn't light up the whole area. Stiles hops into the grave while Jackson and Isaac climb out. Scott and Stiles begin picking up all of the bones they can see - Scott's approach is methodical, picking from the clavicle right down to the tips of each finger, and then starting on the ribs, one or two still joined to the sternum but most having been crushed by the weight of six feet of dirt.

  Stiles, meanwhile, simply grabs for anything that looks remotely bonelike, shoving it into the patent red leather bag.

  "I think that's as many as we're gonna get. Allison, do you have the salt and something flammable?"

  In answer, a half bottle of vodka and a pound of rock salt hit the earth by Stiles' feet.

  "You go," Scott says. "We'll give you as much of a head start as we can."

  Stiles nods and then abruptly throws his arms around his best friend after shooting a text to Derek; Scott hugs him back hard and it takes a while for either of them to separate.

  "You got this, dude. I'll see you later."

  Stiles squeezes one more time and shoulders the bag, half being hoisted out of the hole by Jackson and Isaac. He grips both of their arms, kisses Allison's cheek and books it for the gates. He passes Lydia who gives him an anxious wave and scrambles up and over the wrought iron.

  Derek revs the engine, making Stiles glare through the windshield; Derek only grins and hits the gas as soon as Stiles is buckled in, clutching the bag of bones.

  "If we cross the river, there's pretty much nothing but forest for miles," Derek says, pulling onto a busy street. "We should be able to get there in about five to ten minutes."

  "Remember, we're driving by human laws," Stiles says.

  Derek almost _pouts_. "Fifteen minutes."

  They've crossed the river and the road they're on is mostly empty - the lights from the Interstate across the water show it to be a more popular route. It's been ten minutes since Stiles got into the car when his phone lights up.

  "Grave's clean," Scott says as soon as Stiles snatches it out of the cup holder. "Salted and burned everything. Lydia confirmed she felt it, like something being wiped clean, but she's worried. She keeps making these noises like she's going to scream. Where are you?"

  "Follow signs for the RV park - you should cross the Spokane river within five minutes and then turn right and follow… Derek, where did we turn off?"

  "Turn off Route 95 as soon as it gives you the option," Derek says. "Head upwards. There's a group of houses just ahead and we're taking the turning after them, it leads to a dirt road which should take us to a clearing."

  "You get all that, Scotty?"

  Scott confirms and Stiles shoves the phone back into the cup holder, keeping the line connected just in case; he puts it on speaker and winds his fingers around the bag handles.

  "Stiles," Derek murmurs. "She's coming. I can feel her. She's angry. I--if she manages to control me, you need to defend yourself. There's a pouch of graveyard dirt in the glove compartment -- circle yourself and I won't be able to get to you. Not immediately, at least."

  Tension spirals up Stiles' spine and he feels like he could vibrate right out of his skin. "We're gonna be fine, Derek. We're gonna do this and we're gonna be fine."

  He reaches over, then, and links his fingers with Derek's over the gearstick; a muscle works in Derek's jaw, but he doesn't pull away - if anything, he squeezes Stiles' fingers between his just a little tighter.

  Derek takes the turn a little sharper than strictly necessary, but when Stiles glances at him, there's sweat beading at his temples and the muscles in his neck look strained. He's barely holding on.

  "Are we far enough?" Stiles asks. "We should just do it now. Derek? Derek!"

  Derek slams on the brakes and Stiles would protest the brutal treatment of Roscoe if Derek looked even a little more sound of mind. "Do you have what you need?"

  Stiles scrambles around the Jeep, shoving handfuls of rock salt directly into Lydia's bag; he unscrews the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol and shoves it in, too; he gropes around the glove compartment for his Zippo, Lydia's Molotov cocktail and the graveyard dirt. "Got it."

  He turns to look at Derek and has to swallow a yelp of fright; Derek's face is contorted with ugly rage, eyes burning red. "Run! Stiles, get out!"

  No sooner has he yelled than Stiles' door is ripped open and he's flung from the car; Stiles curls his body around the glass vial in his hand and prays he doesn't set himself on fire, the bag falls out of his hand and he swears, lurching after it before he's stopped by an unseen force.

  "Stiles!" Derek's out of the car, now, too, on all fours several feet away; his image is flickering between his wolf and his human form, smoke swirling furiously around him.

  "How sweet."

  The voice turns Stiles' blood to ice, a cold, sickening weight settling in his stomach. He's unable to move from his half sprawl in the grass, equidistant between Lydia's purse and Derek. A woman strides out seemingly from nowhere, honey coloured curls bouncing in the glow of Roscoe's headlights.

  She smiles at him. "Stiles, how wonderful to see you again," she says, getting close enough to run her fingertips down the side of his face. Stiles bares his teeth at her and she laughs. She makes a gesture with her hand and Stiles is able to move again, but he's caught between helping Derek and going to get the bag. With any luck, Kate won't realise what the bag _is_.

  Kate stalks over to Derek, who's managed to cling to his human form, though his eyes are still wild and red, his teeth a little more pointy than normal; he growls up at her and she curls her hand under his jaw, tilting his face up towards her.

  "Derek," she croons. "I really thought you'd think twice about trying to betray me. Your darling sisters… oh, think of all the fun we'll have when I get you back home."

  Derek struggles and snarls. Stiles takes a halting step towards him and Derek's eyes snap to his; Stiles freezes in place because he barely recognises the Derek he's come to know, but he _has_ to be in there.

  "Derek, don't listen to her," Stiles says; it's cliché and he's not sure it's ever worked, but he has to try and it's the first thing he can think to say. "Listen to me, Derek, you can fight her. You're stronger than this. Come _back_ , damn it, I can't do this without you."

  Kate's nails dig into the soft flesh of Derek's neck and Stiles clenches his teeth, not breaking eye contact with Derek.

  "Oh," Kate says with a low chuckle. "Oh, little Derek's gone and found himself a friend. Does he care for you the way I did, Derek? Does he know what you did? Have you fallen in love with him the same way you thought you fell in love with me?"

  Derek twitches as though he wants to look away and Stiles gives a stubborn, minute shake of his head. He doesn't care what Kate says, he needs Derek on his side; he needs Derek to know that Stiles is on _his_ side.

  "Do you please him like you've tried to please me, Derek? Does he know how well you take direction, how pretty you are when you're begging? Does he flinch away from your teeth because who could ever trust a beast like you?"

  "I could," Stiles says, and there's a flash of the Derek he knows, a hint of desperation, of _hope_. "You're not a lost cause, Derek. There are people _here_ who could love you. It doesn't matter what's been done; all that matters is what you do _now_."

  That's when Lydia starts screaming. Stiles can hear her from where his phone is still on speaker in the car and he has a split second to spare some sympathy for Scott and the other wolves before a blur of movement catches his attention.

  Derek grabs Kate's arm and twists until there's an audible crack; she flings him away with an outraged cry and he's in wolf form before Stiles can even take a breath, eyes blazing red.

  "Derek, no!"

  It's too late; Derek lunges, but instead of going for her throat, which would have made sense to Stiles, he goes for her coat; his teeth close around the pocket at the same time as there's a flash, a glint of metal in the faint moonlight; Derek lets out a high, pained whine and there's a sickeningly slick noise before he's tossed aside again, towards Stiles this time, and he doesn't get up again.

  "No," Stiles murmurs, clambering over in what feels like slow motion. Kate goes clean out of his mind when he grabs for Derek's shoulder - he's human again - and pulls him onto his back. There's one long, clean slice from Derek's clavicle to his navel and he's wracked with weak convulsions, blood bubbling from his mouth. "No, no, no. Derek, no. Come on."

  He doesn't know what to do with his hands; one minute, he's holding onto Derek's clenched fingers, the next he's running them over Derek's chest, trying to summon whatever trace of magic he has in him to will Derek to _heal_. It's never worked before, not with himself and not when Scott had been shot up with wolfsbane, but he has to _try_. He presses his hands to the wound - it's too deep, his hands can't cover the whole thing, no amount of pressure in the world will stop the blood flow. But he has to _try_.

  "Yours," Derek chokes, uncurling his hand to push something into Stiles'. It's his contract - the deal he made with Kate to bring back his father.

  "No," Stiles says. "No, you can't go back. If the contract's broken, you're going back and I can't--"

  "It's okay," Derek says, eyes fever bright and glassy. "It's okay; I don't--I don't blame you."

  "I do!" Stiles protests. "I blame me. Don't leave me, you asshole."

  Derek smiles at him, teeth and lips smeared and blackened, convulses once more and then goes limp with a sick sounding exhale. Stiles stares at him, hands bloodstained and feeling bereft; he clutches at Derek's arm, eyes fixed on the blood oozing from what seems like _everywhere_. Something snaps in his chest, a sudden surge of anger rolls through him. He grabs the tattered remains of his contract and staggers to his feet, whirling around to face Kate. She's perched on Roscoe's hood looking falsely sympathetic.

  Stiles pulls out the Zippo from his pocket and burns the contract. "New deal," he says, feeling reckless and more than a little hysterical. "Bring him back. Bring Derek back--free. Bring him back, the werewolf not the hellhound. Bring him back, alive, and you can have me. One year, just like the last deal."

  Kate tips her head, eyes sliding back and forth between Derek and Stiles consideringly. She slips, ever so slowly, down from the car; she reminds Stiles of a cat with the way she slinks across the ground between them. "I gave you a year last time and you tricked your way out of it."

  Stiles grinds his teeth. "One year," he says. "Give me a year with him and you can come and collect me personally. Bring him back, no fucking around with his memories or who he is. Bring him back to me, healed and whole, and I'll even find a way to fucking _giftwrap_ my soul. Both of us get to walk away with our lives and souls in tact tonight and you come back for me in a year."

  Kate hums thoughtfully and then steps toward him, grabbing him around the back of the neck and fixing her mouth over his. It takes everything in him not to struggle against her, to accept the contract she's forging.

  Behind him, Derek gasps in a rattling breath; Stiles rips himself away from Kate and drops to his knees, watching as Derek's skin begins to knit back together, leaving his torso whole and unblemished, blood retreating into the wound other than what's dried around his mouth and on his fingers -- and the stuff that Stiles has managed to drench himself in.

  "Stiles?" Derek croaks and Stiles could sob with relief. Derek's eyes crack open, hazy and unfocused for a the most fleeting of seconds, and immediately widen, darting to Kate still standing over them. "Stiles!"

  "It's okay," Stiles says, reaching over to press a hand to Derek's chest where his heart is beating, steady and true; where the skin is pink but unmarred. He leaves a bloody smear when he takes it away again and feels faint, whether from the sight of so much blood in such a short space of time or with relief, he's not quite sure. "You're okay, it's okay."

  "What have you done?" Derek pushes himself abruptly upright, grabbing Stiles' chin. "Stiles, what did you do?"

  "What I had to," Stiles says, not moving away but glaring at Derek and daring him to protest. "Pop quiz: are you feeling any primitive urges to rip my throat out and drag me to hell?"

  Derek narrows his eyes.

  Stiles swallows. "Okay, bad example. Scratch that, new question: are you feeling particularly hellhound-y?"

  Derek's ire cracks; Stiles watches as realisation dawns on him. He knows Derek's going to be pissed as hell, but Stiles can't help the grin it inspires to run across his face. He watches Derek's eyes flicker and glow blue - and that--that is _definitely_ a conversation they're going to be having in the soon to near future - before Kate breaks the moment entirely.

  "Well, this has certainly been all sorts of illuminating and touching," Kate says, spinning on her heel and beginning to walk towards the treeline. Stiles shoves his hand into his pockets and _believes_ as he tosses a handful of salt and mountain ash into the air, curling his body over Derek's.

  "You forgot one thing," Stiles murmurs and it's then that Allison, bless her immaculate timing, appears right out of the trees and steps neatly into a circle cast by Stiles, bow drawn; something glints in the dim light at the end of her arrow - her vial of chemicals.

  " _Nous_ ne _chassons_ pas _ceux qui nous chassent_ ," Allison says, and lets the arrow fly. " _Nous_ protégeons _ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-même_."

  Kate watches the arrow sail past her and then flicks her gaze to Allison, considering. "And who are you, little girl, to quote the code at me? To bastardise it and make it _weak_?"

  Allison's grin is fierce in the firelight as a Prada handbag bursts into flame. "My name is Argent."

  Kate's face is mocking for all of two seconds before she lets out an inhuman shriek, turning towards the burning purse. Kate's body begins to contort, smoke beginning to billow from her mouth as flame begins to flicker around her form; Stiles turns his head, nauseated, pressing his face into Derek's neck against the sight and sound. Derek's arm finds its way around Stiles' waist, hauling him closer despite the blood spattered down Stiles' front.

  Abruptly, there's silence. Stiles lets go of his belief, dispersing it in a way that will open the circles he created, and goes limp against Derek, letting out a half hysterical laugh, curling his fingers against warm skin.

  "Stiles…"

  Stiles lifts his head to look down at Derek. "Don't argue with me," he says. "It worked -- everything worked out, and that's what matters. We're both alive--you're _alive_ , Derek. I risked my life for you, and I get that you think that was a dumb thing to do, but guess what? You risked yours for me and you _died_ doing it, so really, who's the smart one here?"

  "Neither of you," Lydia snaps, stomping towards them. "You both nearly got yourselves killed--one of you succeeded! What were you _thinking_? You, Stiles Stilinski, should know better after what you put us through this past year and _you_ , Derek Hale, don't even _think_ about getting on your high horse-- _ever again_ \--after getting yourself killed when there was another solution!"

  Derek stares up at her, stunned. Stiles grins, propping one elbow on Derek's chest, chin on his palm.

  "You're one of us," Stiles says; Derek looks at him, and then back at Lydia, who's lost interest in them and has gone to inspect the ashes that had once been a thousand dollar handbag and a pile of bones, and then back at Stiles.

  "Why is Derek always naked?" Jackson complains, breaking the moment. Stiles barks a laugh.

  "Feeling inadequate, Jackson?" he asks, hauling himself up and sticking a hand out for Derek, who rolls to his feet and grabs Stiles' hand even though he's already standing by the time he does. Jackson doesn't dignify him with an answer and Stiles drags Derek over to the Jeep, pulling open the back door and rifling through the duffel for a set of clothing; Derek takes over after a few moments of Stiles grabbing blindly.

  A pack of wet wipes smacks Stiles in the side of the head while he's distracted by watching Derek pull on his jeans, and Derek coughs to smother a laugh, bending to pick them up as Stiles glares in Lydia's direction. His attention is soon claimed by Derek taking out a wipe and beginning to clean away his blood from the webbing of Stiles' fingers.

  "Oh," Stiles says, having forgotten about how his hands -- and forearms, apparently -- had been all up in Derek's guts. He watches their hands as Derek carefully cleans every inch of blood away; eventually, he curls his fingers under Stiles' chin and tilts his face up, running a fresh wipe along Stiles' jaw.

  "You said something about not being finished with me?" Derek asks, dropping the bloody wipes into a separate pocket of the duffel, wiping his hands dry on his jeans and pulling on a t-shirt.

  "I wasn't--I'm not," Stiles says. "We need to have a long discussion about a couple of things first, but I can guarantee we'll get back to finishing _that_ particular conversation sooner rather than later--we're definitely going to pick up where we left before I went grave robbing."

  Derek gives him a faint smile, brushing disinfectant scented fingertips over Stiles' cheek before turning away. Stiles almost turns to watch him go, but catches himself and instead circles around to check his passenger side door hasn't been damaged beyond all repair. Gingerly, he swings it closed and gives it a fond pat when it closes without bouncing off the frame. 

  When he turns back around, it's to see Derek with his head tilted to one side, neck offered towards Scott who's smiling, if looking a bit bewildered. They're talking in low tones but nobody's being maimed, so Stiles figures it's all good and goes around to start the Jeep, finding Derek's jacket caught in the door; he picks it up, shaking it out and folding it over his arm before climbing into his seat and running his hands over the wheel.

  "Sorry, man. I promise I won't let the mean werewolf drive you until he's at least taken a couple of real driving lessons," Stiles croons. "Don't worry, I'll show him how to treat you right."

  "Should I be jealous?" Derek asks, sliding into the passenger seat and settling there like it's where he's always been.

  Stiles pats the dashboard fondly. "No, I think Roscoe's willing to share if you promise not to be so rough with him again."

  Derek's response is all teeth. Stiles pretends it doesn't send a shiver down his spine as he watches his friends shrink away into the trees, no doubt returning to the SUV.

*

They're nearing the Argent house when Derek breaks the not uncomfortable but not _easy_ silence between them.

  "I asked Scott to consider me," Derek says. "To join his pack, I mean. He told me that I was as good as part of it, but I need to… I can't just walk into it."

  "You died for me, Derek," says Stiles. "As gestures go, that's pretty much the biggest, most elaborate way you could have gone about gaining everyone's trust and respect. No matter what you're telling yourself in that head of yours, you weren't thinking of yourself when you went for Kate--you didn't even go _for_ Kate, you went for _my_ contract. If that's the way your mind was working, then there's no way in hell you'd have foreseen me making another deal to bring you back, so don't try to bullshit me and say you knew I'd find a way because you _didn't_. You could have gone for Kate's throat and at least taken her down with you, but you didn't, Derek. You literally threw yourself onto her knife just to make sure I survived. If that's not sacrifice…"

  Derek's silent for a moment, probably waiting to see if Stiles has anything more to add to his rant. "I know," he says when Stiles doesn't say any more. "I know all of that, but that proved my loyalty to _you_ \--I still have to prove it to myself. I haven't been my own person in over two hundred years, Stiles. I need to figure that out. I meant it when I told you I couldn't watch someone else I cared for be ripped apart at her hands and that's why I went for your contract. Once I was dead, she'd have been able to send another hound after you and there would have been nothing I could have done to stop it; I did the only thing that made sense and if that's taken as some grand gesture, then that's fine, but you also need to know that it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't told me it was possible.

  "Back in the forest, you told me I could fight her. You told me to stop listening to her and start listening to you. You _told_ me to come back, and I did," Derek's examining his hands pretty intently as Stiles parks the car, neither of them making any move to get out. "I obeyed. I wanted to, and I wanted to do what you told me to do, but I couldn't have if you hadn't."

  Stiles licks his lips, processing, frowning. "Hellhounds…"

  Derek shrugs. "Kate had never done anything to win my loyalty. I'd have obeyed her every whim forever, unfailingly, if only she hadn't given me two hundred years to store up my anger. That gave me just enough to suggest the idea of getting rid of her to you, to begin with and from then… it's all been an exercise in balancing self restraint with the realisation I didn't feel compelled to rip you to pieces as much as I had at the start."

  Stiles reaches over and grabs Derek's hands in both of his; Derek looks up at him. "That's another discussion being tabled for the time being," he says. "If it's okay with you, though, I'd like to go to bed, curl up and sleep for at least twelve hours because this weekend has been physically, emotionally and mentally draining. After that, we're going to start driving back home; we'll go for a long lunch somewhere and talk about everything, and maybe we'll take the long way back; maybe we'll stop in Portland for a while, go up to Seattle or down to Salem or Eugene. Point is, sleep sounds like a banquet to a starving man to me right now, I don't know about you."

  Derek blinks at him, mouth opening and closing, jaw working.

  Stiles preempts him. "And again, if it's okay with you, I wouldn't mind company."

  Derek gazes at him as though trying to figure out a particularly trying puzzle, but eventually he nods, a tiny smile curling the corners of his mouth.

  Stiles nudges his knuckles against Derek's when they get out of the car and Derek opens his hand, allowing Stiles to slide his fingers into the spaces between Derek's, squeezing before starting towards the house.

  "The entry fee was astronomical," Allison's explaining to Patricia, who appears to have been waiting by the door for them to return -- Allison and Lydia are absent their flat shoes and jeans again, and nobody has any blood smeared anywhere; so Stiles gives his friends an exhausted smile and skirts around them towards the stairs. Derek follows, still attached by the hand.

  They release their hold on one another in order to strip down to underwear (or put some on, in Derek's case) and then Stiles crawls into bed, hauling his pillow closer. The bed dips and Derek hesitates before a warm hand ghosts over Stiles' skin, running from the nape of his neck to the small of his back; Stiles sighs happily and the hand moves to curl over his hip, Derek's weight settling against his back; Stiles places his hand over Derek's and turns his head to smile; Derek relaxes further against him and there's a soft press of lips against the back of Stiles' ear just as he's hanging from the hinge of consciousness.

*

Stiles wakes up alone, the bed around him cold. He swaddles himself in the comforter and shuffles to the edge of the bed. The alarm clock on the side tells him it's just past noon, so the others have probably been awake for hours. Stretching, he shucks off the covers and ambles over to the duffel - a sign Derek's been out to the car - to pull on a pair of jeans and, feeling a little giddy, one of Derek's generic store brand Henleys.

  Stifling a yawn and running a hand through his hair, Stiles makes his way downstairs. A quick peek through the frosted glass window next to the front door reveals a blue blob that's probably Roscoe, so the others have to be nearby.

  "He said to call him when you woke up," Patricia says, materialising from the direction of the living room, her honey coloured hair scraped up into a ponytail which sways like a metronome as she walks. "He, Scott, Isaac and Jackson went for a run together. Allison and Lydia went shopping."

  "Oh," Stiles says, clutching the banister. Patricia's blocking the way to the kitchen which had been his original destination. "Thanks."

  "You should stay away from him," Patricia says just as he turns to head upstairs for his phone. He turns halfway toward her, aiming for more polite interest than amused skepticism, because he has a feeling he knows what's coming. "Your guy -- Derek, right? He might not be all he says he is."

  "What else might he be? He's a little dark and brooding, but he's hardly Edward Cullen," Stiles says, deciding to humour her.

  Her blue eyes are wide, serious and earnest; she looks so much like Allison but with Chris and Cameron's colouring. "More like Jacob."

  Stiles tries to look incredulous and maybe a touch amused. "Well, it's not like I'm anybody's Bella," he says. "I think I'll survive."

  "I'm serious! He could be trouble!"

  "That's alright," Stiles says thoughtfully. "That's good, actually. Trouble seems to follow me around like a bad smell, so at least if Derek's trouble, I know he's gonna stick around."

  Patricia looks frustrated and worried; Stiles is trying to think of a way to reassure her that doesn't completely out over half of his friends as werewolves, because Patricia seems harmless, but at face value, so had Allison at her age. "You don't think it's kind of creepy he never seemed to be more than a couple of feet away from you?"

  Stiles blinks at her. He'd never actually given that any thought, but in retrospect he can see it clear as glass. "None of my friends have any concept of personal space," he says. "Derek's not creepy - he's pretty harmless, trust me."

  Patricia wrings her hands, looking distressed and he's about to just throw caution to the wind and tell her he knows what she's talking about, reassure her there's definitely nothing to worry about, when she stops him dead in his tracks. "Have you heard of the writer S. Stark?"

  Stiles nearly chokes on air. "I might have," he hedges. "In passing. What does he--or she! It could totally be a she, right? Totally innocuous to just have a first initial--uh, what do they have to do with anything?"

  "S. Stark is a man," Patricia says, her eyes brightening. "He comes from California, actually -- that's what it says in the little _About the Author_ paragraphs, though it doesn't give much more information; there's not even a picture."

  Stiles knew it had been a good idea to refuse to take a photograph for his book inserts. He resists the urge to call his agent and laugh down the phone at her.

  "Anyway," she says. "He writes fiction but it's so close to real it might as well be fact, you know? I have his books upstairs."

  "I must be thinking of a different person," Stiles says slowly. "The writer I'm thinking of writes about werewolves."

  That seems to give her pause; she looks at him, mouth opening and closing a couple of times. Stiles can practically see her weighing up the pros and cons of 'revealing' to him the truth about the supernatural. Her face falls a little and it tells him she's made up her mind. "Oh," she says. "I guess Stark is a pretty common name."

  Stiles can't help a smile. "Dude writes weird dedications," he says. "The werewolf guy, anyway."

  Patricia looks as though she's going to burst; he watches as she visibly forces herself to act casual. "Oh, the _werewolf_ books!" she says. "Yeah, _that_ Stark! The one with all the weird letters?"

  "Yeah," Stiles says. "Everybody goes nuts trying to figure out what they're meant to mean because they're almost the same letters every time but in different orders, right?"

  "' _Jam sawmill_ ' were the only words that could be made out of the letters in the first three books," Patricia says, nodding. "But nobody's figured out why one of the a's was changed for an m in the fourth and has stayed that way. I think there's a new book about to go into print so maybe we'll get a clue."

  Stiles grins, a sudden thought occurring. "Maybe," he says. "Anyway, I should call Derek. We need to get on the road."

  "Oh! You're leaving?"

  "Just Derek and I," Stiles says. "I think the others are staying for one more day. Derek and I are gonna take our time heading home, give us time to talk about some stuff. It's been, well, a hell of a weekend."

  Patricia nods and Stiles scampers upstairs. Before he calls Derek, however, he shoots a text to his publisher to change just one page before his latest book (he'd finished writing it months ago but it had been tied up with various editors and publishers) goes to the printer's. Grinning to himself, he calls Derek, sneaking down onto the porch, so as to avoid Patricia, to wait for his return.

 

Derek's smiling when he flops down on the porch step, his shirt damp and clinging to him. He smells faintly of clean sweat and Stiles is leaning closer before he can think better of it. Derek wraps an arm around Stiles' shoulders easily, bumping his nose against Stiles' temple.

  "Hey," Stiles says, turning his head to look at Derek, breath catching when it brings their faces close; Derek's eyes crinkle at the sides and Stiles can't help but feel that it's as though a switch has been flipped somewhere: as a hellhound, Derek had been standoffish and almost clinical in his expression to begin with, only softening up towards the end, but as a werewolf it's like Derek's been remade again anew, all warmth and easy smiles - there's still some of the old intensity lurking behind his eyes, but they'll get to that. Derek begins to push himself up, bumping his mouth against the side of Stiles' head again.

  "I'm gonna take a shower," Derek says. "Wouldn't want to offend Roscoe."

  Stiles is still sitting there with a silly grin on his face five minutes later when Scott, Isaac and Jackson arrive.

  "Got it _so_ bad, dude," Scott says, plastering himself over Stiles' back.

  "Both of you," Isaac says, nodding and sitting on the step below them; Jackson manages to make his slump against the porch rail look artful and nonchalant. "I like him, though."

  Scott hums in agreement. "We like him," he says.

  Stiles sits up sharply, Scott's chin colliding hard with Stiles' shoulder. "You guys went out and gave him the 'hurt him and we'll kill you' speech, didn't you?"

  "Kill? I didn't threaten to kill anyone," Scott says loftily. "I told him if you got hurt, if he intentionally hurt you, then he'd be out. That's it. I made him aware you're my brother and I would kill for you if there was no other choice, but I didn't say I'd kill _him_."

  The thing is, Stiles believes Scott: Scott's all about fairness and justice, doing what's right; he doesn't subscribe to the belief that killing something solves any problems. In a way, Scott's threat of turning Derek away is worse than a death threat -- a packless werewolf with no ties or real knowledge of how to live in a human world is a dead werewolf, with none of the luxuries of said death being quick or painless.

  However, Scott had quite pointedly used a singular voice. Stiles glances at Jackson and then Isaac, raising his eyebrows in question. Both Jackson and Isaac have slight sociopathic tendencies, and have done since a feral alpha desecrated a handful of his classmates at winter formal just months after Scott himself had been bitten.

  "I promised no one would ever find the body," Jackson says, examining his fingernails. "And that he'd never find his bones to burn them. Lydia offered to help."

  Isaac's head lolls and he lifts an eyebrow. "I told him about my childhood," he says lazily. "Told him I'd make Kate seem like child's play."

  Stiles sighs. He knows Isaac would never do a thing against anyone if Scott said not to, but the same didn't go for Jackson, who had a habit of doing his own thing. "Guys, no threatening Derek, okay? Please. He's been through a lot more than any of us. Combined, probably."

  "He took on Jackson and Isaac," Scott says, placid and matter of fact as ever. "Handed their asses to them, too. Simultaneously."

  Stiles grins. Isaac and Jackson both scowl. "It was a fluke," Isaac says.

  "He went from chatting to me to having both of you on the ground within five minutes," Scott says, serene as he settles his chin on Stiles' shoulder again. "It wasn't a fluke. He stood up, told you what you did wrong, and then had you on the floor _again_ when you tried."

  Stiles can't help the warm feeling in his chest: Scott speaking so candidly about Derek's interactions with his pack means not only does Scott genuinely like him (that is to say, he's not just pretending for Stiles' benefit), but the rest of their little group do, too.

  Derek reappears a few minutes later, the duffel slung over his shoulder. His hair's still damp and sticking up every which way, and he looks subtly different. New. His movements are easy, graceful looking things, a little more confident and a lot less tense.

  "Are you ready?" Derek asks, Roscoe's keys looped around one of his fingers. Stiles shakes Scott off of his shoulders and stands up, turning to clap Scott on the back.

  "I'll see you in a few days, man."

  Scott squeezes him in response and Stiles hops off the porch, catching the keys Derek tosses to him.

  As soon as they're both seated and belted in, Stiles pulls away from the house with a sigh of relief. Derek smiles, sharing the sentiment, and pulls out his phone.

  "What are you reading now?"

  "Dante's Inferno."

  "You really are kind of a masochist, aren't you?"

  "That explains why I like you so much."

  Stiles laughs and gently punches Derek's arm. "Ass," he says, even though the warmth in his chest from earlier feels like it's _blooming_ at Derek's words.

*

They're a few hours out of Spokane when Stiles pulls to a stop at a diner just outside Ellensburg. Derek pockets his phone and follows him in without a word, sliding into the booth Stiles picks and shrugging off his jacket. He looks something resembling anxious, anticipatory. Stiles reaches over to squeeze his wrist before settling back, smiling up at the waitress that comes over to hand them menus and explain the day's specials. She flits away and silence falls over them.

  "I don't know where to start," Derek says after a moment, shifting. It's the closest to restless distress Stiles has ever seen him.

  "I'm thinking nachos to start and maybe a steak melt with curly fries," Stiles says. "Then maybe some pecan pie if I'm still hungry, which is probable -- I didn't have any lunch today."

  "Stiles."

  Stiles looks up and sighs. "Pick what you want, we'll order, then we'll start talking," he says. "I don't want to get interrupted by anything other than food arriving. Stop looking like I'm going to, I don't know, start yelling and cast you out or something. We're… we're _friends_ , at least; I'm not gonna just fly off the handle at random. I want to talk this out, and if we stay just friends, then I'll make my peace with that, but you should know that it isn't every day I just go throwing myself in the path of demons, making deals to bring random people back. I want to talk -- about everything. I need to know you're ready to _tell_ me everything."

  Derek frowns, glancing at him and then away. "You might not like what you hear."

  "I didn't like watching you die for me," Stiles murmurs, reaching over to grab Derek's wrist, squeezing hard enough for Derek to look back at him and meet his eyes. "You don't have to protect me, particularly not from yourself. Everything in your past is exactly that: it's in your past. I just--I mean, I'm not gonna _force_ you to tell me anything you don't want to, but… I do want to move past this. I do want to talk this out."

  Derek nods. Instead of pulling away like Stiles half figured he would, though, Derek turns his hand over and curls his fingers around Stiles' wrist in return, holding on like Stiles is an anchor in a storm.

  Their waitress returns and they order nachos to share and their main courses. She appears, briefly, with their drinks and then wanders off again. The diner's not busy, but it has enough other patrons to see to it that she doesn't hover around their table.

  "You don't have to start anywhere," Stiles says. "I can ask about some things that were mentioned the other night, or things I've noticed, and we can go from there?"

  "Some things might not be easy to answer," Derek says. "Some things… there are some things I don't even know how to put into words. But we can start there, I guess."

  "Your eyes," Stiles says. "They're blue. Not gold--or red, like they were."

  Derek looks pained for a second. "I wasn't lying when I said you were supposed to be my first kill," he says. "When I was alive… the first time, there was a mine collapse; I should have died, but my healing meant I survived. My girlfriend at the time, she… she was going to die slowly and painfully, losing so much blood but not quickly enough. She begged me to just end it. So I did.

  "My mother found me hours later, still sitting there with Paige half crushed under the rock. The miners were going to be starting their shifts soon, so we had to leave her there. She… she was discovered quickly. Her brother came to tell me the news - it hadn't been any secret that we'd been sweet on one another. Nobody suspected anything other than a freak accident. Nobody knew why she'd been down there in the first place, and nobody asked _me_. If they'd asked…"

  Stiles squeezes Derek's wrist, hard. "It was an accident," he says. "The mine collapse was an accident, Derek. It wasn't your fault; you did what you could to ease her pain."

  Derek's jaw works and he shakes his head. "I should've been better. I should have done something more. I tried to push her ahead of me but she tripped. If I'd moved in time, I'd have been able to cover her, protect her."

  "You're incredible," Stiles says. "But you're not a superhero, Derek. You couldn't have defied the laws of physics. Jesus, Derek, I _know_ how you felt in that instant."

  Derek looks at him sharply, brow creased and mouth formed around a question he doesn't appear sure how to ask.

  "If I'd been quicker, you'd have never thrown yourself on Kate's knife," Stiles says, and he's pretty sure he's hurting himself more than Derek with the pressure he's putting on Derek's wrist, his fingers white with tension. "I could have burned the bag while we were in the Jeep. I should have burned it while she was trying to get into your head. Just because I got you back doesn't mean it didn't hurt to feel so helpless while I watched you die."

  Derek stares at him, at an apparent loss for words, lips slightly parted to show just the edges of his front teeth and Stiles wants to kiss his stupid, confused face. Instead, he loosens his hold on Derek's wrist to link their fingers together. "You might have been expendable to Kate, but you're not expendable to me, okay? You keep looking at me like I'm going to start laughing and tell you that this entire thing has been an elaborate dream. It isn't. I'm not going anywhere, unless you want me to. If you want to leave now that you're not _compelled_ to stay with me, I won't stop you, but you need to know that I don't have any plans about turning you away. You don't need to be constantly caught off guard when someone -- me or any of the others -- includes you in something. Like Lydia, last night, when she was pissed you got yourself killed: we care about you, Derek. I meant what I said when I told you that you're one of us, now. Scott's happy for you to join his pack, and Jackson and Isaac think you're pretty cool. Scott wants you to take all the time in the world for you to decide what's best for yourself, to do what you need to do, but there's a space for you if you want it."

  Derek stares for a little longer before nodding, looking as though he's trying to process. Their nachos arrive before either of them can think of anything else to say and Stiles gently detangles their hands in order to dig in, instead trapping one of Derek's feet between both of his under the table.

  "She was my only--I mean," Derek says after a few minutes. "The reason my eyes aren't gold. Just her. Unless… unless you count my family. I mean, that--it wasn't _me_ , but it was because of me. I…"

  Stiles scoops up some guacamole. "If it wasn't you who did it, it probably doesn't count. For your eyes, I mean. I… Isaac feels like he got his father killed, like he's to blame, but his eyes are gold. Jackson actually committed the acts, and his are blue."

  "Jackson's eyes are blue?"

  Stiles pauses with his loaded chip halfway to his mouth. "You didn't notice when you were kicking his ass earlier on?"

  "He stayed human the whole time," Derek says. "I did wonder why Isaac shifted but Jackson didn't, figured it was him being cocky."

  "Jackson's eyes are blue," he says. "I told you about the whole werelizard thing, right? Or I mentioned it, at least?"

  "It was also in one of your books," Derek says. "The killer in one of your books was a South American shape shifter that shed its skin like a snake."

  Stiles gives Derek a warm, fond look. "The entire thing was based around Jackson," he says. "In our sophomore year of high school, our winter formal was crashed by a feral alpha; he'd bitten Scott months beforehand, so Scott had a sort-of handle on things by the time Jackson, Isaac and a couple other classmates of ours got mauled. Lydia, too, but she was mysteriously unaffected, other than being pretty beat up and emotionally damaged.

  "Basically, in high school, Jackson was an asshole--more than he is right now--and after the bite, Scott couldn't get a read off him. He knew Isaac had been turned straight away, and the same with two other kids -- Erica and Boyd -- but Jackson didn't give off any vibes until he started getting sick. It eventually transpired that Jackson was responsible for a lot of the gory killings in the area that we'd been attributing to the alpha."

  Derek tilts his head slightly, considering. "The bite give you a true reflection of the person you are."

  Stiles touches his nose, pointing at Derek and nodding. "Exactly," he says. "After a lot of running around and nearly being murdered by all-star lacrosse team co-captain bizarro avenger lizard douchelord Jackson Whittemore, Lydia threw herself into the mix and she was his… anchor, I guess you could say. She pulled him back and he was prepared to give up his life so that he wouldn't hurt anyone again. There was a very emotional scene where he rose from where he lay and bam, Jackson's a werewolf."

  Derek's quiet for a while longer before he clears his throat. "That can't have been your only question."

  "It wasn't," Stiles says, using two chips to sandwich a mass of cheese, jalapeno, sour cream and salsa together. "But my next one is the big one, so take your time. If you don't know how to answer it, just take your time. What happened with Kate?"

  Derek picks a slice of pepper off the plate and seems to contemplate his drink for a few moments; his eyes dart to Stiles' and then away. "It was a few years after the thing with Paige," he says. "I was… my mind wasn't in the right place. She--God, all the warning signs were right there and I didn't even notice them--she seemed to just come out of nowhere. Nobody knew where she came from, just that one day she turned up in town with a whirlwind story about an abusive husband. Her dresses were… inappropriate, and she teased every man -- and some of the women, who came near her. She was beautiful and dangerous, and I couldn't help myself. I was so easy for her; I did anything she wanted."

  Stiles wipes one of his hands on his napkin and reaches over for Derek's hand again; the nachos have been demolished, anyway. Derek squeezes his fingers back.

  "I told her about Paige, about what I'd done," Derek says. "And she… Kate, she didn't run screaming, didn't tell anyone, so I thought that maybe she was trustworthy, you know? So I told her about me--about my _family_. She didn't run screaming from me then, either. There was always something off about her - she smelled like burning electricity--like lightning, like the way your microwave smells when you use it for more than three minutes--and like sulphur, like leather and _danger_ , but I didn't trust myself, not anymore. Told myself I was being stupid, overthinking things.

  "Kate saw my eyes, saw they were blue and I think that's what confirmed everything I'd told her was true, to her. I remember the way she flinched away from me when she saw them and I remember I thought that originally, maybe she hadn't believed I was what I said I was, that I'd done what I told her I'd done. But it was more than that. She had this… this necklace. Allison was wearing it that day in your kitchen. She said her father had given it to her, it had been her mothers'. I should have recognised it the moment I saw it -- _La Bête du Gévaudan_. It was a _trophy_. It wasn't long before Kate asked me whether, if I could bring Paige back, if I would. Asked me if she knew a way I could have Paige back, would I do it?

  "This is the difference between you and me," Derek says, looking up at him; he's rigid with tension - Stiles is pretty sure he could bounce a quarter off him and it'd come right back. "I said no. I said no, because I didn't know if I could face her after what I did. I said no because if Paige came back, what if she told people? What if she blamed me like I did? It hurt enough just to live while she was dead, but I wasn't sure I could live at all if she was alive and hated me."

  Stiles digs his fingertips into the bones of Derek's hand despite the claws threatening. "Derek, stop for a second. I need you to breathe for me, okay? Just breathe, focus."

  Derek closes his eyes but stays tense, bowing his head and curling his hand under Stiles', breathing hard through his nose. Stiles panics for a second before skirting around the table and pulling Derek into his side, curling his hand around the back of Derek's neck and not forcing but _firmly encouraging_ Derek's face towards his neck.

  Derek doesn't slump against him, but Stiles is struggling to think of another word for it; Derek's arm curls across Stiles' torso, hand spanning the side of his ribs as he pretty much nuzzles the juncture of Stiles' shoulder. Stiles slides his hand up into Derek's hair and receives no word of protest so leaves it there.

  "Kate… not many people said no to her," Derek says quietly to Stiles' collarbone. "And those who did generally didn't live long. It turns out that because it's usually people who seek out crossroads demons, they take rejection a little harder than most, so when I said no, that I didn't want her to bring Paige back, she took it personally. She disappeared for a while and I thought it was because I'd scared her off, but then I caught her scent a few months later. By then, it was too late - she'd sealed the windows and doors with mountain ash and had pumped the house full of wolfsbane. I'd shown her how to get in through the cellar; I'd told her when everyone would be out of the house. She waited until everyone was home for the evening and that's when she laid the final barrier. It was winter, so there was no reason for any of us to have tried opening any windows."

  Stiles rests the hand not in Derek's hair on the arm Derek has around him. "Still wasn't your fault," he says. "You didn't kill them, Derek. You might feel like you had an essential hand in it, but she hunted your kind for kicks before she became what she was, so she wasn't just going to _stop_. She'd have found a way to do it even if you'd been nowhere near her."

  Derek's saved from having to respond by the arrival of their food. Their waitress gives them a tender look and leaves quietly after Stiles gives her a reassuring smile over the top of Derek's head.

  "I'm gonna scoot back around to eat. You good?"

  Derek nods and releases him, shrinking into himself as Stiles slides back around the booth to settle before his own plate. Stiles tucks in, crossing his legs at the ankles under the table, one of Derek's legs caught between his calves. Neither of them make a move to pull away.

  "So, I was thinking," Stiles says after demolishing a handful of fries. "How much do you really want to see Portland and everything?"

  Derek blinks at him. "I thought we were going because you wanted to," he says.

  Stiles pulls a face and waves a hand. "I wanted to go because I wanted you to actually have the opportunity to see some things outside of Beacon Hills. I guess I kind of wanted to be the one to show you your first pieces of America as it is in the twenty-first century."

  "I'm going home with you, Stiles," Derek says, and there's a tiny smile threatening around the corners of his mouth, like he's not sure he's allowed to laugh at Stiles. "I plan on sticking around as long as you'll have me. You'll have time to show me around."

  Stiles grins at his melt. "Well, then. Now I don't feel as bad saying I just want to go home," he says. "I think we could both use a bit of familiar territory right now. And in the event that statement wasn't specific enough, I do mean that I'm happy for you to stay with me. I want you to stay with me, but only if you're comfortable with it."

  Derek nods, though he's giving Stiles a thoughtful, searching look; Stiles makes a questioning sound in his throat. "Nothing," Derek says; Stiles lifts an eyebrow. "It's just--you're still asking if _I'm_ okay with doing things and--Stiles, you just pulled me into your throat without even stopping to think or question it. Do you know--I mean, I'm sure you know what that--"

  "It's trust," Stiles says, putting his melt down and wiping his greasy fingertips on the napkin, reaching over to slide his fingertips over Derek's exposed inner wrist. "I trust you. I know that's not easy for you to really accept that yet, because you have your own figuring out to do, but I've said it a few times and I'll continue to tell you, every day for the rest of my life if I have to, that I trust you. Implicitly. With more than just my life."

*

The drive back home is something soft and comfortable. Derek's left his phone in the cup holder and spends most of the drive staring out of the window and dozing alternately. Stiles is kind of running on empty, energy wise, but he keeps driving until he reaches the California border.

  "Home?" Derek asks at one point, catching the way Stiles' posture has relaxed marginally, an easy, tired smile on his lips.

  "Almost," Stiles murmurs. "Two to three hours if traffic allows."

  "You're tired," Derek says. "We should stop, get food. Give yourself a rest."

  "It's the middle of the night; I'd rather just..."

  Derek snorts. "Fine. _I_ want to stop," he says. "I need to pee. And I'm hungry. I might die if I don't eat something in the next ten minutes. _You_ might die if I get any hungrier."

  Stiles shoots him a dry look. "You're not funny or cute," he says, watching a smile blossom across Derek's face when he picks up on the lie. Stiles can't help the warm, glowy feeling in his chest that had appeared with Derek's concern for him.

  Derek settles for looking unbearably smug when Stiles pulls in at the next rest stop.

  He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed and goes cold and stiff, panicking for a minute before Derek's right there, sliding behind him where he sat up, wrapping an arm around his chest and hauling Stiles against him.

  "Shh," Derek says, the soft scrape of his stubble a comfort against the bare skin of Stiles' neck. "You're safe. We're okay. You kind of passed out at the table, so I just rented a room for the night."

  Stiles goes lax against Derek with a groan. He notices early light, more dawn blue than full morning golden, falling across the floor through the gaps in the blinds.

  "Oh," he says, not sure what else to say. His heart's still racing, but it's calming. Derek stays where he is, pretty much curled around Stiles' back. Stiles decides he's totally fine with not moving for a while.

*

When they finally pass the sign that cheerfully welcomes them to Beacon Hills, Stiles feels weight he wasn't aware of lift from his shoulders. Derek perks up in the passenger seat as they get closer to Stiles' apartment and he begins to recognise their surrounding. Stiles very nearly rolls down the window just to see if Derek sticks his head out.

  "We'll need groceries," Derek says before he can start trying to subtly lower the window, as they drive past the grocery store. Stiles frowns. "You were expecting to die and then we went away, so there isn't going to be any food. We ran out of chocolate on the way to Idaho."

  "My thinking was that I'll deal with it when it becomes an issue," Stiles says. "Right now, my issues are that I probably smell funky as hell, I want my shower, a fresh pair of sweats and my bed."

  Derek rolls his eyes. "And when you get up, you're going to be pathetic without food or coffee."

  "You say the sweetest things," Stiles says. "I saved your life, you know. You should be grateful."

  "I saved your skinny human ass first," Derek retorts. "Could have ripped your throat out the second I first saw you, but I didn't. I could still do that."

  "No, I don't think so," Stiles says. "Now, thanks to me, you're all alive again, so you're not immortal or anything. If you murder me, my dad will arrest you and you'll go to prison, thus squandering your second chance at life. You're stuck with me, now, buddy."

  He grins, teasing, but Derek ruins the whole thing by giving him a warm little smile. "I've known worse fates," he says, wholly genuine and if Stiles doesn't _melt_ right there and then, it's a near thing.

  "We're past the store now," Stiles says. "At least let me go home and shower, then we'll come back out and grab some groceries, yeah? You should probably shower, too, and maybe shave? You're beginning to look like a mountain man. I mean, not that that's a _bad_ thing, because you're definitely making it work..."

  Derek gives him an amused snort and scratches his fingertips through his half inch of scruff.

  They pile out of the Jeep and Derek hefts the duffel over his shoulder. Stiles leads the way up to his apartment, key out before he's even out of the elevator. He lets himself into the apartment and closes his eyes as he crosses the room to sink down onto his couch. Derek closes the door and makes his way into Stiles' bedroom, probably to unpack. Stiles idly wonders if he could convince Derek to carry him to the shower.

  That thought sends a bolt through him, a low electrical-like buzz beginning to thrum under his skin. He groans and sits up.

  "Write a shopping list," Derek says, emerging from the bedroom with a plastic bag filled with trash. "I'll go get it while you sleep and shower."

  Stiles blinks. "But…"

  "I slept on the way here," Derek says. "I'm pretty sure I can handle a run to the grocery store if I know what I'm buying. Just write down some essentials for the next few days and we can catch up with it when we're settled."

  Stiles wants to hug him, but that would require movement. He takes the notepad and pen Derek swipes from the breakfast bar, beginning to write down a list.

  "I'll shower before I go," Derek says. "Wouldn't want reports of a mountain man terrifying the locals to start springing up."

  Stiles grins at his notepad as Derek flits away.

 

By the time Derek has taken Stiles' list and Roscoe's keys -- he's still avoiding the Toyota like it'll teleport him straight back to hell if he goes anywhere near it -- Stiles is in the shower. He takes his time letting the hot water soothe his aching body, feeling his back muscles beginning to relax from where they feel like they've been knotted all weekend. The low hum of electricity is still there, just under his skin, but he doesn't do anything about it, giving himself a perfunctory wash, not enough to get more than a twitch of interest from his dick.

  He slides into a pair of flannel pants and crawls into bed, sinking into the comfort of his mattress, surrounded by familiar textures and smells. He groans, flopping over onto his back when he continues to be distracted by the way his skin is crawling, the slow itch of warmth starting in his stomach dictating that he either jerk off or find some other way to expel the restless energy he's accumulated from sitting in the car for so long.

  Sighing, he shoves himself out of bed for a lap around the apartment, pausing by the sink to get a glass of water. He slowly sips it, eyes wandering around, searching for inspiration. An idea strikes and he puts down his glass, thoughtful, making a beeline for his study.

 

Derek returns, arms laden with bags, to find Stiles curled on the couch with his laptop. Derek kinks an eyebrow but proceeds to the kitchen area. "Weren't you supposed to be sleeping?"

  "Couldn't sleep," Stiles says, closing the lid and standing up to look across the room at Derek. "Restless. Maybe it was because I let a former hellhound loose in my home town."

  Derek is opening cabinets, putting things away like he's been here as long as Stiles has, and Stiles feels a gush of giddy warmth through him. He ambles around the breakfast bar to help tidy away the rest of the groceries.

  "Stiles?"

  Stiles hums, glancing over his shoulder as he puts away the bread.

  "Why is your desk in the living room?"

  Stiles follows Derek's line of vision. "I did some moving around," he says. "The--my study, it's technically supposed to be a second bedroom, and I figured, you know, you might want some of your own space, so I took a bunch of my crap out. We'll need to get a bed if you want one, and I don't have another closet, but I cleared out some space in mine so you can actually put your clothes somewhere--"

  "--Stiles," Derek says, pulling Stiles around to face him; there's a hint of mirth in his expression. "You want to tell me why there was so much white chocolate on the shopping list? Every time I ate it, you'd give me a look like I'd just personally offended you."

  "That's because white chocolate is disgusting," Stiles tells him, matter-of-fact. He has to play it cool, feign nonchalance, because Derek's very close and it'd be so easy just to move forward and get rid of the foot of distance between them.

  "And yet, you put more white chocolate on there than dark, or even milk, which you do like."

  Stiles blinks at him, fighting not to lean towards Derek, not to bite his lip, not to look at Derek's mouth lest he press his against it. "Well, yeah. You like the stuff. Probably proof you're actually still a demon, or something."

  Derek's mouth spreads into a grin at this and Stiles can't help himself, reaching for Derek's chin, curling his fingers under Derek's jaw.

  "Gnat," Derek breathes, and then they're kissing, Derek's hands finding Stiles' waist, tugging him across the narrow chasm of space between their bodies so that they're flush together from chest to thigh. Stiles makes a noise he'd be embarrassed about were he not being pressed against his kitchen counter by two hundred pounds of muscle.

  Heat spikes through him, miniature explosions all along his skin where he comes into contact with Derek and he wants-- _needs_ \--more. With a quiet whine, he runs his hands over Derek's shoulders, gripping soft leather before deciding it has to go, pushing at it. Derek presses their foreheads together, smiling between small, wet kisses as he shrugs out of the jacket. Stiles' hands tug at the hem of Derek's Henley, raking his short nails up Derek's abdomen and licking into his mouth. Derek yanks the shirt over his head before hauling Stiles back against him; the contact, Stiles' skin against Derek's, is like electricity and fire all at once; Stiles is burning up and pushing his thigh between both of Derek's, pulse positively buzzing through him.

  Derek ducks his head to nip at the skin just under Stiles' ear; Stiles tips his head back, panting. He wants to stop, to ask Derek if this is okay, but Derek's weight is steadily grinding him against the counter so he figures he's at least kind of with the program.

  But still--he has to ask. "Derek," he murmurs, gently carding his fingers through Derek's hair at the nape of his neck, keeping his other hand splayed across the small of Derek's back. "Derek, I need you to tell me you want this--want _me_. I need--this isn't just, gratitude or--oh, fuck--I don't know, obligation? Or something?"

  Derek kisses him, soft and sweet and an aching contrast to the way Derek's also grinding down against Stiles' thigh. He draws back, just barely. "Did that feel like just obligation?" he asks, but doesn't give Stiles the time to answer. "We had--there was a connection, the second I turned up in your apartment. I was--you didn't _save_ my life, Stiles; you gave me mine back. That's not a line, or a metaphor, or whatever: I was literally dead when we met. You were willing to make a deal with the demon who'd killed me just to bring me back. So there's gratitude, but that's not all there is."

  Stiles makes a soft sound in his throat and closes the gap between their mouths again, both hands tangling in Derek's hair.

  "Unless that's all this is for you," Derek says, when Stiles has to pull back because he's run out of air, lightheaded. Derek's words take a second to sink in, but when they do, he frowns, grabbing for Derek's shoulders. Derek trails his mouth down Stiles' neck, nipping and sucking at his clavicle.

  Stiles flounders a little, panicking because he's not sure how to put into words that what he feels for Derek isn't just gratitude, either. He's a _writer_ , damn it: he's supposed to be good at this kind of thing. "No!" he blurts, a touch inelegantly, he'll admit. "It's not."

  "Be still my heart," Derek deadpans, drawing back. Stiles' throat makes an involuntary whine, worrying that he's fucked everything up, but no sooner has the thought crossed his mind than he's being pulled towards the bedroom.

  "I'm experiencing emotions I haven't felt in a long time," Derek says as he chases Stiles down when they collide with the edge of the bed. Stiles arches up, squirming from the heat and struggling against the urge to giggle because Derek sounds like something out of a horribly cheesy romance novel. "Things I haven't felt in over two hundred years, Stiles."

  Stiles gazes up at him, a little slack jawed at the insinuation in Derek's words, in his earnest expression and his careful fingers as they ghost down Stiles' abdomen.

  "I don't mind you driving Roscoe," Stiles bursts, and he's not even sure why his brain is trying so hard to sabotage him. He's talking about his _car_ and Derek's telling him--Derek's saying he could be feeling the same way he thinks he's on his way to feeling, the way he thinks he'll feel given just a little more time to fall.

  "Am I making you nervous?" Derek asks, and Stiles is thrown completely off kilter by the warmth and affection in his voice, the bright smile on his face. Derek curls his hands around Stiles' splayed thighs and rolls them over, pulling Stiles so that he's straddling Derek's hips; Derek's jeans aren't doing much to hide how he feels about the current situation and Stiles' pyjama pants are doing even less, the front wet and a little clingy.

  "This is _worse_ ," Stiles laments, but he cranes forward to kiss Derek, pulling away just enough to whisper. "But so much better."

  Derek plants both hands on Stiles' ass and crashes their hips together, back arched and feet braced on the bed to give them a slow, rolling grind and Stiles is kind of surprised he doesn't just fall apart then and there.

  "Are we taking pants off any time soon, or do you want to psych yourself out some more?" Derek asks, his voice like silk.

  "Oh, fuck you," Stiles says, sitting up to scoot backwards, flattening Derek's legs as he sits on them.

  "I'm trying," Derek says, with a grin that tells Stiles he knows exactly how awful he's being. Stiles groans and rests his forehead against Derek's hip.

  "I think I'm rubbing off on you," Stiles says. "That was terrible."

  He lifts his head just in time to see a gleam run through Derek's eyes. "That's an option, too."

  Stiles laughs despite himself. "If I take your pants off, will you stop?"

  Derek opens his mouth to respond and Stiles surges up to him instead, kissing him hard and cupping Derek's jaw in one hand, his other one fumbling to undo Derek's fly, sliding under the denim and cotton; Derek gasps out something unintelligible and stops making terrible innuendos, though they've done wonders to pull Stiles back from the brink of crushing anxiety. He's overwhelmed with a flush of unidentified feelings when he realises Derek had known to distract him with playful humour until he could handle what was happening.

  Derek lets him control the kiss, both of his hands around Stiles' jaw, pushing his hips into Stiles' touch.

  Stiles sits up again, pulling his hand out of Derek's pants; Derek grunts in protest but lets his hands fall away from Stiles when he moves backwards, peeling Derek out of his jeans and boxers, trailing kisses down his legs, across his hips; he pauses to suck and bite a bruise into the soft skin over Derek's hip bone, letting his breath brush over Derek's cock but paying no other attention to it. Derek's knees come up to cradle Stiles between them, feet planted on the bed again; Stiles curls an arm over Derek's hips to keep him down - he doesn't stand a chance, really, if Derek _actually_ wanted up and out from under him, but it's the fact that Derek allows it, that Derek complies, that has Stiles pressing his face into Derek's knee, pressing the heel of his palm against his own throbbing cock.

  He takes his hand away from himself lest he be tempted, and instead wraps his fingers around the base of Derek's cock, eliciting a hum from him. Stiles takes his time, alternating between pressing little feathery kisses on Derek's skin and sucking bites into his thighs. Derek's hips undulate under him but he doesn't try to break Stiles' hold.

  Stiles grins when Derek makes an impatient noise; he glances up to see Derek's hands fisted in the pillow under him. Stiles finally moves to seal his mouth over the head of Derek's dick, sucking gently at first but gradually increasing the pressure, inching down before pulling almost all the way off several times, getting nearer the root every time.

  It's been a while, so he doesn't manage to go all the way down, but he manages to move so that he's not as awkwardly hunched over, his hands curled around each of Derek's hips instead of his arms crossed over them, able to dig his fingertips into soft flesh as he takes Derek down as far as he can without actually choking himself -- there'll be a time and a place he wants to, he's sure, but streaming eyes and a sore throat aren't the things he wants to remember about this particular occasion - he can deal with an aching jaw if he doesn't have to contend with potentially panicking that he can't breathe. Derek doesn't make much noise, but his breathing is laboured and his hips are constantly shifting, as though he's struggling not to buck up, to fuck Stiles' throat. Stiles swirls his tongue around the head of his dick, spurred by Derek's reactions, licking a firm zig-zagging stripe along the vein on the underside.

  He doesn't realise Derek's hands have left his pillow until there's a bottle being shoved into Stiles' hand. He jerks, surprised, and is rewarded by Derek letting out a choked off moan when Stiles accidentally gags himself on Derek's cock.

  Stiles pulls back abruptly and Derek makes a sound as close to a whine as Stiles has ever heard. He curls his fingers around the lube, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm; Derek gazes down at him with eyes heavy and dark, mouth red and bitten, slightly agape.

  "You want--me? To--you?" Stiles asks, needing clarification because _holy shit_.

  Derek stares at him for a few moments longer, amusement playing about his face. He sits up and cups Stiles' face in one hand, drawing him in for a long, searching, and absolutely _filthy_ kiss. Stiles nearly forgets what it was he'd been asking, though it turns out he doesn't need to remember a thing, because Derek draws back with a final kiss. "Yes, Stiles; I want you to fuck me."

  Stiles gapes and he's pretty sure his brain has just gone temporarily offline because of how fast what had remained of the blood in his body goes coursing straight to his dick. Derek lounges backwards looking unbearably pleased with himself, propped up on his elbows, and Stiles snaps out of his daze, flipping the cap on the lube--he spares a glance towards his bedside, where the drawer is all but hanging out, condoms scattered across the bed and floor.

  "I'm not even gonna ask how you knew where this was," Stiles says; Derek just grins at him, allowing Stiles to part his legs. Stiles grabs for a pillow, folding it over and encouraging Derek to lift his hips. Stiles warms the lube on his fingers, settling between Derek's knees. "Have you--?"

  He doesn't know how to bring up Derek's previous sexual encounters without talking about Paige or Kate. Derek shakes his head, though, getting it. "No one's ever been inside me," he says, then slants Stiles a heated little smile. "Just myself."

  And wow, if that isn't a mental image Stiles wants to retain. He forces his mind back to the present, kissing Derek's knee as his finger circles Derek's hole, putting pressure on the muscle but not forcing inward yet. Derek shifts against him, thigh muscles going taut. Stiles leans up to kiss Derek - he gets lube all over the pillow where he plants his free hand, but he finds he doesn't care as Derek licks into his mouth, eager.

  "Tell me," Stiles breathes. "If you need me to stop. If you need _anything_ , I want you to tell me."

  They're a long way from the hard, fast _want_ they'd had in the kitchen, but there's every bit of intensity there even with Stiles goes as slow as he can, drawing out these little, barely-there sounds from Derek. He presses his first finger in, massaging the rim with his thumb while Derek gets used to the feeling, breathing hard, open mouthed against Stiles' temple. Stiles presses kisses to whatever skin he can reach, moving his finger in small increments. This isn't just sex, he realises - it's intimacy on a level he's never experienced, it's trust in equal amounts of give and take.

  Derek seeks his mouth out and Stiles doesn't need to be told that he's okay, that everything's okay, because it's written in front of him, underneath him, in the lines of Derek's body, soft and pliant but reassuringly solid. Firm and careful, Stiles curls two fingers together and nips at Derek's jaw as he pushes them in; Derek rewards him with an aborted thrust upward.

  Stiles nearly collapses, weak with lust, when Derek's hand wanders down between them to curl around Stiles' cock, jerking him slowly. Stiles makes a thin, needy sound in his throat. He has three fingers pressed inside of Derek and has to pull himself away from the warm grasp of Derek's hand, not wanting to lose it when he's so close in every way. He kisses and nips his way back down Derek's body, lavishing his nipples with attention before teasing the head of Derek's cock with the tip of his tongue, licking up the gossamer trail of precome smeared over Derek's abs. He twists his wrist, crooking his fingers as he takes as much of Derek into his mouth as he can. Derek actually cries out, clinging to the sheets as his upper body convulses, hips pinned under Stiles' free hand.

  "Stiles," Derek says, grabbing for his shoulders. " _Fuck me_."

  "Or what? You'll do it yourself?" Stiles teases, pulling off his cock with a wet sound, a thread of spit following him before he sits back on his heels, eyes darting to where his fingers disappear into Derek's body.

  Derek's frown is somewhat ruined by the fact there's a faint flush high on his cheekbones, his mouth is red and puffy and his hair looks like he got into a fight with a tornado and lost. "I could."

  Stiles grins, leaning up to kiss him; he pulls his fingers out and Derek's scowl becomes more pronounced, though his lips part in what could have been a mumbled protest. Stiles grabs for a condom and more lube, slicking himself up as soon as he manages to get the condom on and wow, they're really doing this. This is really happening. He steadies himself, curling his hands around Derek's sides, smoothing them down and then along Derek's thighs, hauling himself closer, his cock sliding against the crease of Derek's hip. Derek's hand wraps around the base of Stiles' skull and guides him into a kiss that centres him, sending his jitteriness flying out of the window.

  "You good?" Derek asks, and Stiles gazes, wondering, down at him for a second before smiling, lining himself up, unable to resist the urge to press his fingertips into Derek first to feel the way his body gives around them.

  "Yeah," he says back, lips brushing Derek's as he talks. "You?"

  "Better than," says Derek, hooking a leg high around Stiles' waist, using his heel to nudge Stiles closer. Stiles removes his fingers and goes back to making sure he's lined up, beginning to push in. He goes as slow as he can manage and it's actually Derek who makes a noise of indignance; he presses in a little harder, grabbing one of Derek's hands and linking their fingers, pressing it into the mattress while his other stays around Derek's thigh as he sinks in.

  As close as they can be, Stiles folds himself into Derek, burying his face in Derek's neck and just panting, clinging to his hand. It's been too long; Stiles feels all strung out and far too close already, but it's _good_. Derek's tight and hot and all sorts of words and descriptions that are failing Stiles right now, because this feels _big_ , and for once he's not making a size joke. Derek turns his head to press his nose into the juncture of Stiles' neck in return, his free hand still curled around the back of Stiles' neck, twisted in the short hair there.

  Derek rolls his hips and Stiles takes that as his cue to start moving in earnest; he's unwilling to sit up properly so he stays more or less where he is, rocking his hips into Derek in a slow, hard grind; he lifts his hand from Derek's thigh to brace himself on the bed beside Derek's head, his own head hanging low enough to press kisses to Derek's chest, mouth dragging over skin.

  Derek arches and pushes back against him with a punched out gasp all of a sudden and Stiles can't help the triumphant smile that crosses his face. Derek scrabbles for Stiles' shoulder with the hand not clinging to Stiles', gripping tight - probably tight enough to bruise, but Stiles can't find it within himself to care - as he begins to push down every time Stiles presses up, jaw becoming slack, head pressing back into the pillows, abdominal muscles flexing with every movement. The long line of Derek's throat is exposed and so, so tempting. Stiles leans in and clasps his teeth over a tendon, barely hard enough to leave even the faintest of indentations, but it has Derek choking out a moan, legs coming up to wrap around Stiles' waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

  Stiles forces himself to focus, wanting to make it good for Derek before it's all over which, given the sweat Stiles can feel beading down his back, the pressure and heat building in him, beginning to crawl through his veins like lava, won't be long.

  Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away from Derek's, flexing his fingers to get the feeling back in them and then somewhat clumsily curling them around Derek's cock, beginning to jerk him in earnest, his slick, sticky fingers paving the way as he squeezes on the upstroke and twists his wrist towards the tip, stripping the foreskin and running his thumb around the head, across the slit.

  Suddenly, Derek's pushing at his shoulders and Stiles' stomach drops, worried he's doing something Derek doesn't like when they're so, so close. It takes all of Stiles' willpower to pause, to move back, but Derek just sits up and slides straight into Stiles' lap in a startlingly seamless transition that doesn't allow them to part enough for Stiles' cock to come all the way out of him. Derek sinks down again and the abruptness is like being _sheathed_. Stiles keens and Derek gives a choked little hiss because if Stiles had thought the angle was perfection before, that he was as deeply pressed as he could be, Derek's managed to surpass it.

  "Jesus Christ-- _Derek_ , I need you to come--I'm not gonna--oh, God, _fuck_ \--" Stiles grits out, tightening his grip just a touch around Derek's cock, picking up his pace to match the motion of their bodies, his other arm is looped around the small of Derek's back and holding onto his hip like his life depends on it, his fingertips slipping and sliding on Derek's skin from the sweat and the lube; Derek's knees are pressed into the mattress, his thighs working as he pushes Stiles down onto his back, Stiles' hands having to leave Derek to do so.

  It's that, Stiles thinks -- it's the sight of Derek above him, lifting and lowering himself, hands finding Stiles' and pinning them both to the mattress to brace himself as he fucks himself on Stiles' dick -- that has Stiles trying to simultaneously gasp and cry out; his orgasm hits him like a tsunami wave, leaving him devastated and weightless, floating somewhere out in the atmosphere, his entire worldview narrowed to just this room, just his bed, just Derek rolling his hips in little, hard circles until Stiles whines his discomfort, too soft and sensitive to keep going. 

Freeing his hands, he pulls Derek down by the back of his neck as soon as he has the presence of mind to do so, trading his cock for his fingers, sliding them straight into Derek's slick, clutching heat, searching out the spot that had set Derek alight. Derek curls over him and Stiles turns his head to kiss Derek's temple.

  "Stiles," Derek murmurs, barely able to keep his eyes open as Stiles presses his fingers as deep as he can, thumb massaging the skin just behind his balls while Derek's hand sets an unforgiving pace around himself, Stiles' name a panted mantra against his skin, the bridge of Derek's nose pressed against Stiles' cheek.

  "Come on, Derek," Stiles says, pushing his free hand through Derek's hair, tugging gently, eyes fixed between them where Derek's stripping his cock and rocking back onto Stiles' fingers.

  He watches Derek unravel and fall to pieces. The sound he makes as he comes is nothing short of carnal; there's no other way Stiles can think to describe it as Derek shudders above him, back bowed  Stiles keeps his fingers pressed, straining, massaging Derek's prostate until he sags, collapsing just barely to the side of Stiles, his front pressed up against Stiles' side, and that's when Stiles lets his fingers slide away.

  "Remind me to find another room to clear out," Stiles says, once Derek's breathing has become just a little less erratic. "And put more white chocolate on the grocery list."

  Derek snorts and turns his head to kiss Stiles' shoulder. "If you promise to stop talking about other men while you're fucking me, I could be persuaded to do it again, no cleaning or chocolate required."

  "Other men?" Stiles echoes, feeling his sleepy satiated mood beginning to slip away, replacing it with sheer mortification. "What other men? I didn't--oh my God--God. You're talking about me saying God. Oh my-- _Derek_. You're not funny."

  Derek gives him a lazy grin, eyes still lidded. "It was a little funny," he says. "You mentioned him and his son. Call it a possessive streak."

  Stiles buries his laugh in Derek's sweat damp hair, fingers still scratching through it. "You were definitely the only person I was thinking about, trust me."

  "I do."

  And, well. There's not much to say to that.

  Stiles strokes his fingers down Derek's back. "I'm pretty sure my legs are no longer solid. I nominate you to go find a cloth," he says.

  Derek presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw and rolls away. Stiles is momentarily distracted taking in the spectacle that is Derek, in all of his sleepy eyed, satiated and somehow graceful naked glory, sauntering across the room to crouch by the duffel bag. Just as Stiles catches up with himself and begins to protest Derek actually moving, he's knee-walking back across the bed with the pack of wet wipes Lydia had thrown at them a few nights ago. Derek is studious, as meticulous in the way he cleans every inch of Stiles' skin, as he had been that night.

  "No wet spot," Stiles remarks, watching Derek clean himself before tossing the soiled wipes and condom in the general direction of Stiles' waste paper bin. "Good thinking. I like you; I think I'd like it if you stayed. Maybe forever. I could cope with forever."

  He blames the mind blowing sex for his giddy honesty. Derek only hums, wrapping an arm over Stiles' waist and hauling him under duvet. "Maybe," he says, burying his face under Stiles' ear, draping his body across Stiles' like an oversized electric blanket.

  "I swear, I don't think I could sleep with anyone else after that. I think you've ruined me, Derek. I think I'm broken. I hope you're proud of yourself."

  Derek humours him, lifting his head and craning up to kiss Stiles gently, firmly. "Very. Now sleep."

  Stiles takes in the satisfied little smile on Derek's face and decides that, yeah, maybe he's just a touch sex stupid, but he's not saying anything untrue. Derek tucks his head in again, hand finding Stiles' and curling their fingers together.

  Derek's a solid, comforting weight on his chest, keeping him grounded. In the space of just a couple of weeks, Derek has become his constant.

*

When the others arrive home, they all pile into Stiles' apartment having brought beer, food and movies, setting themselves up around the living room. Derek has Stiles pressed up against a wall in his room and is kissing the life out of him when Scott walks in.

  Scott yelps and backpedals, yelling gibberish in a wounded tone. Stiles does his level best not to grin and break the kiss, instead smiling around Derek's tongue as it traces his.

  "We should probably go join them," Derek murmurs, pulling away just enough to talk; Stiles hooks his fingers in the v of Derek's shirt. "They did come over to see us."

  "You should have thought of that before you stopped me from putting my pants on," Stiles complains, but he lets Derek peel their bodies apart, missing the rough denim and soft cotton against his skin. Derek pecks his lips again and tosses a pair of sweats and a hoody at him. Stiles pouts, making Derek smile, and pulls the clothing on over his boxers.

  "They brought white chocolate," Derek says. "I can smell it."

  Stiles catches his hand, because he can and there's just a tiny part of him that wants to brag a little to his friends, and curls their fingers together, leading Derek out into the rest of the apartment. "Hey, no thanking our friends the way you thanked me, all right? I veto that idea."

  Derek quirks an eyebrow. "Well, darn it all to hell and back, I was really looking forward to the orgy," he says, deadpan. Stiles grins at him and hauls him down onto the sofa with him. Derek allows himself to be manhandled until Stiles is sprawled lengthways and Derek's nestled between his legs, chin resting on Stiles' sternum.

  "You know, I kind of miss your wolf form," Stiles says, pushing his fingers through Derek's hair; Derek tips his head to one side and presses into the touch, resting his cheek on Stiles' shoulder and closing his eyes. "Maybe we should get a dog."

  "Too much competition for attention," Lydia points out with a fond look at Jackson, who scowls. "Prada and Jackson get into snits when the other gets to sit with me."

  Stiles snorts and gazes down at Derek's face. "Maybe we'll hold off on the dog," he says. "It's difficult enough keeping the werewolf fed and happy."

  Derek opens one eye, tipping his head back to slant a look at him before settling again.

  "I don't miss your wolf form enough to wish you were still a hellhound," Stiles says quietly, feeling like it's somehow important. "Not least because of the shedding, or the amount of clothing you went through. Hellhound Derek was great, but I like my boyfriends with a side of, you know, _life_. And losing the prime directive of wanting to murder me -- that's definitely a perk of Werewolf Derek's. So werewolf has two over hellhound already and--"

  Derek lifts his head and kisses him, smiling against his mouth just a little. "I get it," he murmurs, bumping their noses together before tucking his head against Stiles' shoulder again. Stiles curls his arms around Derek, lacing his hands across the small of his back, burying his nose in Derek's hair for a few seconds.

  His friends are all watching him, though as soon as he looks around, Scott, Isaac and Jackson all find the television screen very interesting, where the DVD title screen is playing out a montage of scenes. Only Lydia and Allison continue watching him; Lydia's eyes are warm and Allison's outright smiling. She's close enough to reach out and touch his ankle where she's curled with Scott against the couch, surrounded by cushions and pillows. After a moment, Lydia presses the play button and they all settle in.

  "It's good to be home," Allison says just before the opening credits roll, and Derek makes a low noise in his throat that sounds like agreement.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warning:** Major Character A literally throws himself on a minor character's knife in order to get Major Character B out of a bind and dies. The death is extraordinarily temporary, though.
> 
> +
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://obroech.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi!
> 
> p.s. explanation on '[jam sawmill](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/7034428)'


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